


Ghosts and Monsters

by darkhorse82



Series: Light [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, How Do I Tag, Light Angst, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Character Death, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Reichenbach, Russian character, Seizures, Sequel Possible, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 05:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15332901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkhorse82/pseuds/darkhorse82
Summary: Sherlock returns after Reichenbach, trying to keep up with Sebastian Moran while also keeping his return a secret. He doesn't count on a cynical Russian ex-special agent's involvement.All the whump you can choke down. No romance, but it's pushing toward Johnlock if you squint.





	1. Echoes and Specters

**Author's Note:**

> not betaed or brit picked and im not russian so thank you google translate. fic is complete, so chapters will be posted regularly.

It was just after seven in the evening and misting as Sherlock exited the tube station at Bethnal Green. He was back in London after nearly three years away, but as much as he wanted to head back to 221B, home, he needed to be patient. After spending the past eight days madly chasing Moriarty's last man from Bali to London, Sherlock was at the limit of his transport. The small skirmish he'd been involved in at the Ukrainian border two nights ago hadn't helped matters either; there was a half inch deep furrow in his left side left by a bullet that continued to bleed sluggishly.

Recovery and discretion were the goals at the moment, which was why he was currently breaking into a flat. He'd watched the owner leave forty seven minutes ago. She carried a thin white cane and kept one hand firmly on a railing as she went down the four steps leading out of the building. A blind woman would fit the discretion portion of his plan perfectly.

The door popped open and Sherlock moved quickly into the woman's home, removing his coat as he did so. He peeled off the mist-dampened button down shirt, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth as it pulled the wound open again, sending a fresh trickle of blood to the waistband of his pants. He sat down heavily on the couch, intending to rest a moment.

*+*+*

Sherlock was awoken by a door slamming.

The woman kicked the interior door closed with another slam and walked to the kitchen to drop off a few bags of groceries. She set her cane against the kitchen table, shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the back of a chair before beginning to unpack the grocery bags. She had a jar of jam in one hand and turned to put it in the refrigerator before freezing in place, one foot slightly raised, and cocked her head toward the living room where Sherlock sat. She inhaled deeply through her nose. “I hope you don't plan on robbing me. I don't have anything,” she said and put the jar in the fridge.

“No,” he said, trying to place her accent. It wasn't quite British; there was something Eastern European about it. He hadn't meant to be caught by the homeowner and certainly wanted nothing to do with her, but her reaction piqued his interest. 

“Well that's good, I suppose,” she said and continued to put groceries away. “Who are you and what are you doing in my home if not to rob me?”

“I needed a place to stay.”

She huffed. “There's a homeless shelter not far from here. You should try there.”

“I'm not homeless,” Sherlock said and stood up. He winced again, his time on the couch having done nothing to ease his aches. If anything, he felt worse.

The woman snorted, walked right up to him and stopped less than a foot away. She leaned in a bit and sniffed. “You certainly smell like it,” she frowned, and said “You're bleeding. Do you need an ambulance?”

“I'm fine,” he breathed. The constant adrenaline of the past eight days was wearing off and he was going to crash. Stupid. Sherlock hadn't made a mistake this dangerous since...

“That's the most blatant lie I've heard all day.” She reached out towards him and managed to run her hand down his upper arm. “I'm not going to ask why you're shirtless, but you've got a fever.” She grabbed his wrist and pulled him down the hallway to the bathroom. “You might as well strip the rest of the way. Take a cool shower.”

“I hardly think that's necessary,” Sherlock said and weakly tried to pull away. She held firm.

“If you're going to stay here for any length of time, you need to shower. You reek so bad I can taste it. Now strip. Don't be shy,” she added with a saucy wink.

Sherlock sighed. He was too tired to argue, and she did have a point. He began to remove the rest of his clothing.

“Good,” the woman said. “I'll see if I can find something for you to wear, because I doubt that whatever you had on is going to be wearable or even sanitary,” she called as she walked away.

Sherlock turned on the shower and stepped in. In addition to his side, there were numerous other minor cuts and scrapes that stung as he washed. He heard the bathroom door open and close and figured she must have found something. Based on what he already deduced about her, she lived here alone, so it was unlikely she would have men's clothes on hand. She was also a good eight inches shorter and a bit thinner than Sherlock.

He finished showering and got out, glancing at what she left him and frowning. She did not have men's clothing. There was a bathrobe that barely hit his knees and a pair of track pants that were also far too short. Deciding the bathrobe was useless, he tossed it aside. A vague sense of modesty made him struggle into the pants, but he'd much rather wear a sheet.

There was a knock on the door and he opened it for the woman. 

“Feeling a little better? Why don't you come back into the living room so I can take a better look at you,” she said, and grabbed his wrist again.

“I don't see how you can 'look' at me, and you don't need to lead me around like a lost puppy. I can find my way to another room, thank you,” Sherlock remarked dryly and removed his wrist from her grasp. 

“Fine. Go sit down. There's some paracetamol for your fever and some bandages for wherever you're bleeding from. And it's an expression, smart-ass.”

Sherlock sat and took the paracetamol with the glass of water that was on the end table. He set about re-bandaging the wound in his side. “You're awfully...trusting of someone who just broke into your flat,” he said as he worked.

She shrugged and sat in the chair opposite him. “Like I said, you seem desperate. What are you running from anyway?”

“Who said I was running?”

“Come on. I may be blind, but I'm not stupid. You break in here, you're injured, you haven't left but you haven't told me your name, so you don't want me to know who you are. If that's not running then I don't know what is. So? The law?”

“No.”

“Drugs?”

He rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Jilted lover? I can keep going.”

“No,” he said, a little more forcefully.

“Mafia?”

“Hmph. That's probably the closest.”

“Organized crime, eh? Well thanks for getting me involved.”

“You're not involved. You don't know who I am, and I don't know who you are. You're merely a convenience. A blind woman that lives alone, and you don't have anyone over regularly enough to tell you that one of your kitchen chairs is broken, and judging by the amount of dust around it, has been for some time. Dust is also an indication that you don't have many visitors. Even blind you'd want to make your home clean for guests. You don't have guests because even though you haven't immigrated recently, you still don't have friends. That could be due to your disability or your immigrant status, probably both. In fact, even if you had friends, you probably wouldn't bring them here anyway, it being a poorer neighborhood. You're a proud woman; you're ashamed of living in this area, but it's all your disability payments will allow you to afford.”

The woman was silent for a few moments, looking in his direction with narrowed eyes, then she pulled out her phone.

“Finally decided to call the police?”

“Tempting, but no,” she said, and pushed a button on the phone. It announced the time, 9:38pm. “How do you know all that?”

“It's what I do.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, you can tell me more about myself tomorrow morning. You should get some sleep. I'll warn you, I do have a gun, so if you break into my bedroom I will shoot in your general direction,” she said, and left.

Little regard for herself, Sherlock thought. He picked his coat up from where he dropped it on the floor near the couch and retrieved his phone. 

Need clothes- SH

Welcome back, brother.- MH

+*+*+*

It was a thud at the front door that woke Sherlock this time, and he went to investigate. There was a paper wrapped package just outside. He brought it in and was closing the door behind him when he noticed the woman “watching” him from the hall.

“Good morning. That's for you, I take it?”

“Correct. I had...an associate drop off some clothes.”

“Mmm. Probably a good thing since I tossed yours in the bin. There was no saving them. You want any breakfast?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer went to the kitchen and popped a few slices of bread into the toaster. She turned back to him just as he was pulling on his new pair of pants and said, “I never asked how you knew I was an immigrant.”

“Simple. You have an accent.”

“No I don't.”

“Well, to anyone who cares to listen or is not an idiot, you do. You hide it well, and your English is fluent, if a bit uncultured, but the signs are there.”

She rolled her eyes at “uncultured” and said, “Where'd I come from, then?”

“Russia. Could have been any Slavic language, but statistically speaking, your accent is far more likely to be Russian,” he said, slightly muffled due to the shirt he was tugging over his head, and sat at the kitchen table.

She nodded. “ _Pravilno_. You said this is what you do; you just go around telling people where their accents are from and how lonely they are, or is there more to it than that?”

Sherlock snorted. “Of course there's more.”

The toast popped up. “Show me,” the woman said, spreading some jam on a slice. She slid it across the table towards him and got one for herself.

“You haven't been blind all your life, in fact it's only been within the last...ten years that you've lost your sight. You carry yourself well in here and only rely on the cane outdoors, but even though you've been in this flat awhile you're still unsure of the stairs leading outside. There could be medical reasons for your blindness; stroke would be one, but you're far too young for that. That leaves trauma. Surviving major trauma to the visual cortex of the brain is exceedingly unlikely, so that leaves damage to the eyes themselves. You came to this country after the blindness, otherwise you would have less of an accent. You don't have any family. If you did, you would be with them so they could assist you, but you're here on your own, so that tells me whatever lead to your blindness happened in Russia. You were already fluent in English, so Britain was a logical choice. Allowing a strange man to spend the night after he broke in to your home shows me that you care little for your own safety.”

“Spot on, for the most part,” she said around a mouthful of toast.

“What did I get wrong?”

“It's been twelve years.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Minor detail.”

“And I was shot.”

“That's--”

“Improbable, _da_ ,” she said, cutting him off. 

“The odds of surviving, let alone being functional, after being shot in the head is less than three percent.”

“So I've been told.”

The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sherlock stood to answer it.

“Sit down! Don't answer my door!” the woman snapped.

She jerked the door open a bit angrily and let in a blast of air that smelled of cigars, brandy and what she assumed was a very expensive wool suit. “Ah yes. I'm looking for my recalcitrant younger brother. I do believe he's taken up temporary residence here,” an extremely posh and proper sounding voice said from the door.

The woman recoiled a bit and said “ _O Bozhe_ , there's two of you,” as he let himself in.

“What do you want, Mycroft? I'm in hiding.”

“Not very well. You texted me the address.” He turned to the woman, deliberately ignoring her furrowed brow and confused expression as she mouthed his name. “Thank you for looking out for him. I'll take it from here.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Mycroft. This is perfect. Besides, we haven't been able to track him down yet.”

“Wait, what's perfect? You're not planning on staying here, are you?” the woman asked, her head jerking back and forth between the two men. 

“Well, yes. Why not?” Sherlock asked, as if it should have been obvious.

“Why not? Why not? You don't live here, we've known each other for less than twenty-four hours, and, no offense, but you're kind of weird.”

Mycroft blew a breath out through his nose.

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

“We don't even know each others' names!” She was shouting now, and her arms were spread wide in an incredulous gesture.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. You may have heard of me. I've been out of the country for a while, and I need a place to continue my work in dismantling a vast crime syndicate. There, now you know 'who' and 'why'. Mycroft, if you would be so kind as to send over some essentials.”

“You don't know me. I could be a murderer!” She was still shouting.

“I already know what I need to know. You're not a murderer.”

“I used to be!”

Sherlock's head snapped to the woman, then to Mycroft, who shrugged, and fired off a text. “I haven't had the time to do a formal background check on your new landlady. I only know her name and that she is here legally.”

“You don't know everything. Hah!” she crowed.

“I shudder to think what kind of security threats your people are letting in to the country,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock as his mobile beeped. “Ah. Here we are. Major Liolya Anatolyevna Verednikov of an Alpha Group division based in Krasnodar, veteran of the second Chechen war. Discharged on 14th October, 2003 after being shot during a mission which killed three of her teammates. Awarded...quite a few medals.”

Liolya whistled at the speed of the response. “Don't let the medals fool you. The Russians hand them out like vodka.”

“Are you certain you want to stay with this woman, Sherlock?”

“Quite,” he said, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Mycroft sighed. “I see. Very well.” He turned to Liolya. “Do keep an eye on him for me,” he said without irony, and headed for the door. Just before leaving he called to Sherlock, “I'll have some clothes and other necessities sent over as soon as I am able.”

“So, am I to call you 'Major' now?” Sherlock asked sarcastically, after the door closed behind Mycroft.

Ignoring his tone, she replied, “ _Net_ , 'Lio' is fine. You can't tell me you're completely surprised by that. By the way you've figured out everything else about me, I would've thought something like 'special forces training' would've been a flashing sign.”

“It was...unexpected. Your recklessness makes a little more sense, knowing your former abilities.”

“'Former?' I can still kill a man bare handed. I just need to be pointed in the right direction and he needs to stay still while I feel for him.”

“Self-deprecating humor is your defense mechanism.”

“Don't start that shit again. So what do you plan on doing here? My life's pretty boring.”

“As soon as I locate the last agent, I will leave.”

“And you expect that to be any second now? Because honestly, I don't think you're in any shape to do much of anything. You've probably still got a low fever, and your injuries haven't magically disappeared overnight. You should rest,” she said.

“I can't do anything until Mycroft brings me a computer anyway,” Sherlock said, with a huff of annoyance.


	2. Paramount and Pompous

“BORED!” 

Lio jerked the headphones out of her ears. “ _Iisus Khristos_ , what is wrong with you? I'm not deaf!”

“I'm bored!”

“So? I thought your brother was supposed to bring you a computer, what happened to that?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “He is apparently having trouble procuring one with enough security features. Ugh, my mind will atrophy at this rate.”

Lio shook her head. “We've only been sitting here for maybe four hours. I don't think minds work like that.”

“You don't know how mine works.”

“ _Slava Bogu_. Anything I can do to prevent a repeat of you nearly scaring me out of my skin? You said you've been away for a while. Tell me where you've been.”

“It's irrelevant. I caught many criminals in many places. That's all that matters.”

It was Lio's turn to sigh. “Okay, what about before that? Your name sounds vaguely familiar, but I don't read the tabloids. Why'd you leave?”

“There was a criminal mastermind threatening the people closest to me, so I had to fake my death and disappear for a few years.”

“That doesn't even sound real. But given what I know about you so far, why not?” she said with a shrug. “Do these people know you're alive?”

“No. I've only been in London for twenty-six hours and thirty-seven minutes.”

“So why come here? Why not go back to them? I'm sure they'd be happy to see you not dead. You can track this last guy from home, _da_?”

“Not without risking them all over again.”

“ _Kolodets_ ,” she swore.

“Indeed.” Sherlock sat with his fingers steepled under his chin for a few moments before surging to his feet and grabbing his coat.

Lio jumped. “Could you please not do stuff like that? Where are you going? Not that you should be going anywhere in your condition.”

“I'm fine. I need to go out. Acquire data. Don't know when I'll be back,” he said and swept out the door.

“ _Poka_ ,” Lio said to the empty room, and went back to her audio book.

It was sometime later, after Lio finished dinner, that there was a knock on the door. She let Mycroft in. “I guess you've found a computer for him?”

“Hmm, yes. Where is he?”

“Stepped out. Left about six hours ago and said he didn't know when he'd be back.”

“Good,” Mycroft said, and set down the two bags he was carrying; one with Sherlock's laptop and one with clothing and toiletries.

Lio narrowed her eyes. “You're not the type of person to do this yourself. What's going on?”

“He'll be here for a while. I want to make it absolutely clear that his identity and whereabouts must remain confidential. There are currently three people that are aware that my brother is alive, and I'd like to keep it that way.”

“Shouldn't be a problem.”

“Miss Verednikov, I do hold a...minor position in the British Government, but it's enough that I can have your citizenship revoked at any time and will not hesitate to do so if necessary.”

“You don't have to threaten me, Mycroft. I know the value of secrets.”

“Yes, I'm sure you do. You must be keeping a considerable amount of them yourself. A warning, then. Sherlock has a tendency to investigate things he's found interesting. Your secrets won't stay secret for long, I'm afraid. When he inevitably pries into your life, try to remember that this is his safehouse.”

“So you're basically telling me not to throw him out when he pisses me off,” Lio said, a corner of her mouth quirked up in amusement.

“I suppose I am. Well, I should be off now. Good evening, Miss Verednikov,” Mycroft said, and opened the door to leave, only to come face-to-face with Sherlock. “Sherlock,” he acknowledged.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered, and pushed past him to slam the door. “I see he finally brought a laptop. What else did he want?”

“Threatened me with deportation.”

“I'm surprised he didn't do that the first time he was here,” Sherlock scoffed.

+*+*+*

Lio walked into the living room the next morning, toweling her shaggy, chocolate-colored hair dry. “You're up early,” she said to Sherlock, who was typing away furiously on the new laptop. Finished with the towel, she tossed it back into the bathroom.

“Never went to sleep.”

Lio raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Oh, okay. You do that often? Not sleep?”

“Yes,” he said, still typing.

“Right. Well, there should be a cab here shortly. I've got a doctor's appointment, so I'll be gone for a few hours. You're on your own for food,” she said, grabbing her coat and cane. Lio waited for a few moments for a response, and when it became obvious she wasn't going to get one, shrugged and left.

Sherlock continued his research, when, approximately two hours later, he reached another dead end. In between dismissing numerous leads on the last man of Moriarty's web, he had been trying to obtain more information on his new flatmate. Now that Lio was gone, it was time for a more hands-on approach. He leaped to his feet and headed to Lio's room. He'd looked in to the Alpha Group and found it had been created as a counter-terrorism unit. He had yet to find any record or reference to the incident that left Lio blind. Mycroft mentioned medals; Sherlock knew she would have them somewhere. Obvious places first. He started under the bed and found nothing but dust. He opened the drawer in the nightstand and discovered the gun she had threatened him with the first night. Sherlock's mouth quirked in a small smile. She hadn't been bluffing. 

Just as he was about to close the drawer, he spotted a flash of metal under the weapon. Lifting the gun, Russian standard military issue GSh-18, he found a pair of small keys. “Where's the safe, then?” Sherlock asked himself. “Safe, safe, safe, safe...” he muttered, and flung open the closet door. He stopped a moment and looked at the clothing, which was neatly arranged by color, from dark to light. Not a single item out of place. He'd have to ask Lio how she managed it. 

Lio was not tall, so the safe would have to be low. Sherlock didn't see anything obvious, so he got down on hands and knees and searched the floor of the closet. “Ahh, here,” he said, and pulled up a loose floorboard. “Too cliché.” The safe soon followed. Carrying his prize back to the living room, he opened it. He was marginally surprised when the first thing he saw was a clear plastic-wrapped bundle of cloth.

It soon became apparent that the cloth was a uniform as Sherlock pulled it free from the plastic. He set it aside for the moment and took out the notebook-sized box that was behind the uniform. He used the second key on it. 

There were six medals inside. Sherlock saw a bit of paper poking out from under the velvet pad on which the medals rested. Once he lifted the pad out, the paper revealed itself to be several letters and photographs. Sherlock carefully thumbed through the pictures. Lio was in formal uniform in a few of them, but others were more relaxed and showed her with her teammates. The last few were crime-scene style photos of what Sherlock deduced to be her final mission: three men side-by-side and face down with their hands bound behind them and a single gunshot wound in the back of their heads. A fourth puddle of blood was visible in some of the pictures. He had yet to work out how she survived the injury and would need more information to do so.

Putting the photos aside and ignoring the letters, he turned his attention back to the medals, and picked them up. It was at that moment that Lio returned.

“How was your appointment?” Sherlock asked.

“I wasn't sure if you were even paying attention. Fine, by the way. What have you been doing all day? Did you eat?”

“I've been researching, and no.”

“Ah. Well, I'm just going to grab a sandwich. You can help yourself if you want,” she said, and went to the kitchen. “So, did your research turn up anything?”

Sherlock very carefully and as quietly as he could manage put the letters and photos back in the velvet box. Lio came back into the living room with a sandwich just as he was replacing the medal pad when one of them slid to the right clinked against another.

Lio froze and cocked her head. “Please tell me that's not what I think it was.”

“You were not exaggerating when you said the Russians hand out medals like vodka.”

“Sherlock...” she started and sat down heavily in the nearest chair. “Sherlock, that's really—why would you go into my room and break into my safe?”

“I didn't break in. I found the key. Do you keep that gun maintained?”

“Of course. Are you looking for a demonstration?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“Why are you angry?”

“Do you not understand personal boundaries? I'm angry at the invasion of privacy. It's locked for a reason,” she said, then threw up her hands, holding the sandwich in her mouth. “I suppose you want to know what they are now?” she asked, plopping down next to him on the couch. “Should be pretty easy for you to deduce. The first one is Hero of the Russian Federation, and the others are participating in counter-terrorism and special operations and military merit and bravery and protecting state borders et cetera et cetera. So their way of thanking me was to give me six medals that I can't see, dry-cleaning a uniform I can't wear again and having the head of the Alpha Group write a letter that I can't read. Did you read it?”

“Russian is not my strongest language, so no,” he replied, then added, “they also gave you a home and a pension.”

She scoffed bitterly. “Don't patronize me. You know, Mycroft warned me about this, you snooping through my stuff. He knows you pretty well.”

“Hmm.”

They sat in silence while Lio finished her sandwich. “You're going to put that back where you found it, right?” she asked, and tapped the safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iisus Khristos-Jesus Christ  
> Slava Bogu-Thank God  
> Kolodets-well shit  
> poka-bye


	3. Flesh and Spirit

Lio walked into the living room the next morning, toweling her shaggy, chocolate-colored hair dry. “You're up early,” she said to Sherlock, who was typing away furiously on the new laptop. Finished with the towel, she tossed it back into the bathroom.

“Never went to sleep.”

Lio raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Oh, okay. You do that often? Not sleep?”

“Yes,” he said, still typing.

“Right. Well, there should be a cab here shortly. I've got a doctor's appointment, so I'll be gone for a few hours. You're on your own for food,” she said, grabbing her coat and cane. Lio waited for a few moments for a response, and when it became obvious she wasn't going to get one, shrugged and left.

Sherlock continued his research, when, approximately two hours later, he reached another dead end. In between dismissing numerous leads on the last man of Moriarty's web, he had been trying to obtain more information on his new flatmate. Now that Lio was gone, it was time for a more hands-on approach. He leaped to his feet and headed to Lio's room. He'd looked in to the Alpha Group and found it had been created as a counter-terrorism unit. He had yet to find any record or reference to the incident that left Lio blind. Mycroft mentioned medals; Sherlock knew she would have them somewhere. Obvious places first. He started under the bed and found nothing but dust. He opened the drawer in the nightstand and discovered the gun she had threatened him with the first night. Sherlock's mouth quirked in a small smile. She hadn't been bluffing. 

Just as he was about to close the drawer, he spotted a flash of metal under the weapon. Lifting the gun, Russian standard military issue GSh-18, he found a pair of small keys. “Where's the safe, then?” Sherlock asked himself. “Safe, safe, safe, safe...” he muttered, and flung open the closet door. He stopped a moment and looked at the clothing, which was neatly arranged by color, from dark to light. Not a single item out of place. He'd have to ask Lio how she managed it. 

Lio was not tall, so the safe would have to be low. Sherlock didn't see anything obvious, so he got down on hands and knees and searched the floor of the closet. “Ahh, here,” he said, and pulled up a loose floorboard. “Too cliché.” The safe soon followed. Carrying his prize back to the living room, he opened it. He was marginally surprised when the first thing he saw was a clear plastic-wrapped bundle of cloth.

It soon became apparent that the cloth was a uniform as Sherlock pulled it free from the plastic. He set it aside for the moment and took out the notebook-sized box that was behind the uniform. He used the second key on it. 

There were six medals inside. Sherlock saw a bit of paper poking out from under the velvet pad on which the medals rested. Once he lifted the pad out, the paper revealed itself to be several letters and photographs. Sherlock carefully thumbed through the pictures. Lio was in formal uniform in a few of them, but others were more relaxed and showed her with her teammates. The last few were crime-scene style photos of what Sherlock deduced to be her final mission: three men side-by-side and face down with their hands bound behind them and a single gunshot wound in the back of their heads. A fourth puddle of blood was visible in some of the pictures. He had yet to work out how she survived the injury and would need more information to do so.

Putting the photos aside and ignoring the letters, he turned his attention back to the medals, and picked them up. It was at that moment that Lio returned.

“How was your appointment?” Sherlock asked.

“I wasn't sure if you were even paying attention. Fine, by the way. What have you been doing all day? Did you eat?”

“I've been researching, and no.”

“Ah. Well, I'm just going to grab a sandwich. You can help yourself if you want,” she said, and went to the kitchen. “So, did your research turn up anything?”

Sherlock very carefully and as quietly as he could manage put the letters and photos back in the velvet box. Lio came back into the living room with a sandwich just as he was replacing the medal pad when one of them slid to the right clinked against another.

Lio froze and cocked her head. “Please tell me that's not what I think it was.”

“You were not exaggerating when you said the Russians hand out medals like vodka.”

“Sherlock...” she started and sat down heavily in the nearest chair. “Sherlock, that's really—why would you go into my room and break into my safe?”

“I didn't break in. I found the key. Do you keep that gun maintained?”

“Of course. Are you looking for a demonstration?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“Why are you angry?”

“Do you not understand personal boundaries? I'm angry at the invasion of privacy. It's locked for a reason,” she said, then threw up her hands, holding the sandwich in her mouth. “I suppose you want to know what they are now?” she asked, plopping down next to him on the couch. “Should be pretty easy for you to deduce. The first one is Hero of the Russian Federation, and the others are participating in counter-terrorism and special operations and military merit and bravery and protecting state borders et cetera et cetera. So their way of thanking me was to give me six medals that I can't see, dry-cleaning a uniform I can't wear again and having the head of the Alpha Group write a letter that I can't read. Did you read it?”

“Russian is not my strongest language, so no,” he replied, then added, “they also gave you a home and a pension.”

She scoffed bitterly. “Don't patronize me. You know, Mycroft warned me about this, you snooping through my stuff. He knows you pretty well.”

“Hmm.”

They sat in silence while Lio finished her sandwich. “You're going to put that back where you found it, right?” she asked, and tapped the safe.

*/*/*/*

As the days turned into weeks, both Lio and Sherlock gradually became used to the others' presence. Lio grew accustomed to Sherlock coming and going at all hours, though it occasionally woke her. Relying so much on her hearing meant she didn't sleep as soundly, so Lio put a bit of effort into recognizing Sherlock's footsteps, even going so far as having him make several laps of the flat. She also developed the habit of just sitting in the living room and “watching” him work, something he found slightly unnerving because while her eyes were looking at him, they weren't actually able to focus on him.

Sherlock, for his part, if he noticed her engrossed in an audio book while relaxing on the sofa, made a little extra noise to announce his presence. He also picked up the habit of making tea, since the first few times Lio did it he noticed her occasionally using the very tip of her finger to determine the level of the liquid. Sherlock never left things out of place in the common areas (his bedroom was another story), although it took Lio tripping over a six inch stack of files and other miscellaneous paperwork before keeping stuff off the floor was added to his daily routine. He'd looked up from his laptop after hearing a crash and then a torrent of obscenities in Russian from Lio, who was sprawled on the floor. 

They got on fairly well, though Lio had a tendency to tune out Sherlock's deductions and Sherlock was repeatedly trying to deduce things about her. Like how she managed her wardrobe.

“You're a genius, deduce it,” Lio said as she pulled on her coat.

“You must have some way to tell,” Sherlock said, following her to the door.

“I do.”

Sherlock waited a beat. “Well?” He seemed to suddenly realize she was leaving and asked, “Where are you going?”

“'Well' nothing. Doctor's appointment.”

“Didn't you just have one?”

“It takes a lot to keep me functional,” she muttered under her breath and sighed. “That was the neurologist. This is for the little trip in the kitchen the other day. I must've jammed my shoulder because now I can't raise my left arm over my head,” she said, then as an afterthought added, “I'll see you later.”

+++

“Miss...um...Vere...”

Lio stood up. “Verednikov.”

“Sorry. Thanks. Um, should I...” the tech stammered.

“I'd appreciate it if you led the way, yes,” Lio said with a grin. “Go ahead, I'll follow you.”

The tech led her to the doctor's office and poked her head in. “Your next appointment, Doctor.”

“Thanks. Ah, Miss...oh, I'm going to butcher this.” 

“Lio's fine. I don't try to force my name on people,” she said, and held out her hand.

The doctor took it and introduced himself. “John Watson. There's chair directly behind you if you'd like to sit,” he said, and looked over a file while she did. “Dr. Patel sent some paperwork over yesterday, so I'm aware of your history. It also says that you hurt your shoulder?”

She nodded. “I fell, landed hard on my left arm, and now it doesn't work right. It's a bit embarrassing, really.”

“Okay, let's take a look,” Dr. Watson said, and tested her range of motion while palpating the joint. “Hmm...definitely some tightness and a bit of swelling. You most likely pulled the muscle. I don't think there's a need for an x-ray at this point. All right,” Dr. Watson continued, “I see you're on Tegretol, so that limits me a bit...” She heard him tap a few keys on a keyboard. “Here. Ketoprofen. It's an anti-inflammatory that won't interfere with the Tegretol,” he said, and wrote out a prescription. “One tablet every twelve hours for seven days. Call me if the pain gets worse, but we should set up something after those seven days.” At her nod, he stood up. “I've got some time before my next patient, so why don't I lead you out? I can get that prescription for you right away, too.”

“That'd be great, thanks,” she said and followed him. Lio reached into her bag, grabbed her phone and pushed a few buttons. 

You have thirteen new messages the robotic voice intoned.

“ _Khristos_.”

Dr. Watson chuckled. 

“ _Da_ , you can laugh; I'm the one that has to go home to him.”

They paused for a few minutes while Dr. Watson got the medication, then they headed to the door and he opened it for her. “Will you be able to get a cab okay?” he asked, and she could still hear the smile in his voice.

“I'll be fine, thanks Doc. I'll call you in a week, _da_?”


	4. Smoke and Mirrors

Lio returned home and as soon as she had her coat off, shouted, “Thirteen, Sherlock? Thirteen?”

Sherlock looked up briefly from the kitchen table before returning his attention to the bottles in front of him. “Well, you didn't respond to the first four. You never told me you had epilepsy.”

Lio's jaw dropped and her eyes widened in incredulity. “First my safe and now my drugs?”

“When was your last seizure? I don't have first hand experience with those, so I'd like to know what to expect in case you have one.”

“Oh my God, Sherlock. I don't have epilepsy. I have had post-traumatic seizures. My last one was over a year ago. You better put those back exactly where you found them. You've never lived with anyone before, have you? Because you wouldn't have had to fake your death!” she said, voice still slightly raised.

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. “It's irrelevant. You're not him.” 

Taken aback by the uncharacteristic display of emotion in his voice, the irritation Lio felt evaporated quickly. She focused on him contemplatively. 

When Lio didn't respond or even move, Sherlock looked up again and found her “watching” him rather intently. 

“You miss him,” she said, sounding a bit surprised. “Not just him, of course, you miss your whole life 'before,' but him more than anything. You want me to be him. You didn't think you'd be here this long, but since the guy you're trying to find keeps giving you the slip, you're at a loss without him. Your former flatmate, whoever he was, was doing something for you that I'm not. What can I do, Sherlock? I was damn good at my job, before this,” she said, motioning to her eyes. “Let me help you.”

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose. “Sebastian Moran.”

Lio smiled a little, then joined Sherlock at the table. “All right, I'm assuming he's this 'last man' you keep talking about and not your other flatmate, _da_? Who is he?”

“Former army sniper, and from what I've been able to discover so far, James Moriarty's right hand. He was one of three sent to kill the people closest to me. The other two have already been...dealt with.”

“So this Moriarty guy was the criminal mastermind that lead you to fake your death. Got it. Where has Moran been for the past two-ish years, then?”

“I tracked him to France, then Morocco, and through Turkey, Pakistan, India, Kazakhstan, Ukraine and now back to London. Once he arrived here, I lost him.” Sherlock grimaced, as if losing Moran was physically painful. “Mycroft's people will know if he leaves the country at least, but until then...”

Lio frowned and drummed her fingers on the table. “Why come back to London? What's so important here?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don't know. He shouldn't have any reason.”

“Mycroft said there are three people that know you're alive. Me and him are two of them, _da_? Would the third be involved somehow? Because it sounds like Moran led you back here, but he'd have to know you're alive for that.”

Sherlock shook his again, this time more vehemently. “No, the third person is definitely not involved. In fact, she doesn't even know I'm back. Although it is possible that Moran knows I'm alive somehow.”

Lio nodded. “It's what I'd assume. He's a sniper; he could've seen you from literally a mile away and you wouldn't know he was there.”

“I don't like assumptions,” Sherlock pouted.

Lio laughed. “You realize that's pretty much what you do, right? You assumed I was Russian, because that's where the evidence led you, but you could've been wrong.” She ignored his muttered “Not likely,” and continued, “At any rate, to evade you for so long means he's pretty smart, but he brought you back here, to the place you know probably better than anyone. So he's got to have a damn good reason for it.”

“To kill me.”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “Probably, _da_. But that's the end game. He's got to draw you out somehow first. What would do that?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, and earned himself another one of her “looks.”

“Oh da, like you don't have any weaknesses. Moriarty got you to kill yourself to protect your friends, so let's not kid ourselves.”

Sherlock's eyes widened and he stood up abruptly, sending the chair scraping across the floor and causing Lio to jump. “That's it! He's waiting for me to do it again!”

Lio barked a laugh. “What, kill yourself?”

“No, no, to fall victim to sentiment!” he said with a flourish of his hands, but then dropped back into the chair. “Oh, stupid, stupid,” he muttered with a groan.

“Should I start carrying my gun?” Lio said with a smirk.

“You're already closer to this than necessary. I've stayed here too long.”

She shook her head. “It's fine. You chose me on purpose: I'm unassuming, not to mention disabled. You're as safe here as anywhere; and between the two of us, we can probably outsmart Moran, so let's get back to why he wants to draw you out and kill you now all of a sudden.” 

“He may have gotten new data.”

“What about Moriarty? He's a psychopath that nearly beat you once already. I'm sure he'd like another go at it.”

“That's not possible. Moriarty is dead. He killed himself to make sure that I would do the same.”

Lio pursed her lips in thought before shaking her head slightly. “What the fuck kind of people do you attract?”

Sherlock chuckled. 

“Anyway, what was Moran's relationship with Moriarty?”

Sherlock's brows furrowed. “His lieutenant.”

“Not like that. Were they related or anything? Lovers? Or just some guy Moriarty picked up off the street?”

“He was hired, but I'm sure Moriarty researched Moran first. Made sure he had the right qualities.”

Lio closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I've seen something like this before. It was my...second? mission. We were tracking a pair of arms dealers, small time stuff, relatively speaking. A man and a woman, and they were constantly one step ahead of us. When we finally managed to catch one--”

“She refused to give him up?” Sherlock finished.

“Other way 'round, actually. He pretty much took responsibility for everything. Took all the blame on himself and said she had nothing to do with it. It was very clear that he was no mastermind, but he was determined to take the fall for her. She was content to let him do it, too. She had him convinced that she would love him all the more and find him more of a man if he did. It was almost like a master-slave relationship. If Moriarty was as charismatic as you're making him out to be, he could get a minion to continue his work. Or avenge him.”

Sherlock absorbed this in silence. “That...is a possibility.” He moved to the living room and brought out his laptop. 

“Time for more research?” Lio asked, and got a grunt in response. “I'll leave you to it, then.” She went to her room and turned on her own computer, a slightly outdated and bulky customized desktop model. While it was starting up, she checked her closet. Lio ran her hands under the hems of her shirts and found them in proper order. Either he hadn't figured it out yet or he left them as he found them. It had taken her far too long to learn the system, and she wasn't going to let Sherlock's curiosity ruin it.

Going back to the computer, she put a pair of headphones on. No use blasting a bunch of Google searches through the whole house. First order of business was finding out as much as she could about Moriarty. There were more articles on Sherlock than Moriarty, but she skipped the vast majority of those for another time. With Sherlock, she was pretty sure of what she was dealing with; but Moriarty, Moran, and whatever was left of their network was far more dangerous. She hadn't been lying when she told Sherlock she hadn't paid attention; while Lio did recognize Sherlock's name and remembered some news, none of it stood out in her mind. 

It was several hours later when she realized that her attention span was almost non-existent and she had actually spent the last hour or so in a wikipedia black hole and was currently on a page about medieval Japan. She also had a crick in her neck. Shutting down the computer and stretching, Lio wandered out to the living room to check on Sherlock. He was in much the same state she left him in, clicking and typing away at the laptop. Deciding not to bother him, Lio headed to bed.

Nothing changed by nearly nine-thirty the next morning except that he was slumped over slightly and breathing deeply. Lio left him alone and went about her normal routine, showering and getting breakfast. “Ah, bugger,” she muttered upon finding the milk carton empty. In the fridge. Needing a few other things anyway, she grabbed her phone and called for a cab.

Lio was probably the best customer the cab company had, so it never took long for one to show up, despite the neighborhood. She directed it to a convenience store a few miles away and made small talk with the driver, who suggested she check out the new little cafe that just opened next door. Once arriving at their destination, Lio could smell the fresh coffee and decided to follow the cabbie's recommendation. 

She went in and treated herself to a peppermint mocha and a scone, which she felt she deserved given the crazed sniper situation. Lio set her phone on the table and put in one headphone in preparation for the flood of texts Sherlock was likely to send when he woke up.

Lost in her drink, it took a moment before Lio realized someone had called her name.

“Miss Lio?” the voice called again

She cast around for a second before focusing on the location. “Yes?”

“Sorry, it's Doctor Watson.”

“Oh, hey, Doc! Sorry, off in my own little world. Would you like a seat?”

“Thanks. Busy place. One of the receptionists was raving about it, so I had to check it out.”

Lio smiled. “ _Da_ , it's good, but this is probably a once in a while treat for me. Too much going on.”

He hummed in agreement, then said, “I'm not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Oh, the phone? _Net_ , don't worry about it. Just waiting for the inevitable slew of messages.”

Doctor Watson laughed. “I knew someone like that. He would also carry on conversations after I was gone to work. I'd come home and he'd tell me he'd been asking for a pen for four hours.”

She grinned. “He doesn't sound very self-sufficient.”

“In some ways, not at all. I'd sometimes have to get his phone out of his own pocket.” 

Lio threw back her head and laughed. “Oh God, that sounds horrible. We've only been flatmates for a few weeks, but if he starts doing that, I'm gonna kick him out. Or kill him. I've already contemplated murder.”

“He certainly had his moments...” 

Doctor Watson sounded wistful, so Lio sobered a bit before asking, “You said you knew someone like that. What happened?”

“He...died. A few years ago.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. He seems like he would have been a handful, but you must have been close.”

“John, please, and yes he was quite the git, but he was my best friend.”

Lio thought back to her lost comrades and understood exactly what he meant. “What was his name?” she asked, and took a sip of her mocha.

“Sherlock.”

Hearing that threw her completely for a loop and she gasped, causing her to choke on the drink. John immediately went to her side and thumped her a few times on the back before she was able to get a good breath.

“All right?” he asked as he sat back down, concern evident in his voice.

Lio wiped the tears from her eyes and nodded. “Just went down the wrong pipe.” She took another minute or so to recover before asking, “That's gotta be a unique name, _da_? Can't be too many 'Sherlocks' around.”

John shook his head. “I doubt it. Even if someone shared the name, there was no one quite like him.”


	5. Ash and Urn

Lio barely remembered to buy the milk that led to the outing in the first place. She arrived home still a little shaken later that afternoon and didn't even realize Mycroft was there until after putting the milk away and entering the living room, when she caught the combination of wood smoke, the wool of his suit, cigars, and his particular brand of aftershave. “What are you doing here?”

“Yes, a pleasure to see you again, Miss Verednikov.”

“Mycroft was just leaving,” Sherlock said tightly. 

Based on previous interactions, Lio figured most of their bickering was a show, but Sherlock sounded genuinely angry. “What's going on?”

“Moran's been seen near King's Cross,” said Mycroft.

Lio frowned. “That's good news, isn't it?”

Sherlock snorted derisively. “He promptly disappeared again.”

“That's bad news.”

“As I've been trying to tell my little brother, we have several good images of Moran on CCTV. He's alone and didn't interact with anyone, even via mobile, until hailing a cab,” Mycroft explained in a condescending tone.

“And then you _lost_ him,” Sherlock said, with equal condescension, before getting up and grabbing his coat. “Looks like I'll have to do this myself,” he spat, stalking out the door, slamming it as he left.

“He's going to get himself killed,” Lio said, and turned to Mycroft. “Aren't you going after him?”

“Whatever for? I learned long ago that Sherlock does what he wants, when he wants, and there are very few people that can stop him. I am not one of them.” He sighed, and continued as he headed for the door, “I'll have my people tail him. Or try to.”

Knowing there wasn't much she could do either, Lio quickly grabbed something to eat and took the opportunity to do some investigating of her own, something she should have done when she first found Sherlock Holmes in her living room. The news articles after his suicide were the first items that came up, so Lio worked backwards from there. She found references to John Watson in many of the articles, then discovered his blog and soon after that Sherlock's own website, both of which she bookmarked for later. She devoured every piece of information, even the ridiculous Kitty Riley articles (which led her to check if the hack still had a job. She did, much to Lio's consternation.) It was nearing one in the morning before she finally delved into John's blog, and was enraptured by his storytelling. Even the computer's robotic voice couldn't detract from his writing style and his ability to humanize Sherlock, which was quite the accomplishment. 

Lio had fallen asleep in the middle of going through Sherlock's website (and he complained about other people being boring), but was startled awake when she heard the front door open and close. Checking her phone for the time, she was surprised to find that it was just after seven in the morning. No wonder her neck and shoulders were stiff. Stretching, she went to find out where Sherlock had been for the past sixteen hours. “Well, I hope your temper tantrum was productive. Did you find Moran?” she asked, but didn't get a response. Belatedly she realized that it might not be Sherlock and stepped closer, listening and sniffing. Sweat and stagnant water were the two overwhelming scents, but she could also smell Sherlock's coat, which was a veritable potpourri of things she'd come to associate with the man: asphalt, faint cigarette smoke, his shampoo, and the air of London itself.

Sherlock hadn't moved from the entryway. He was also breathing raggedly, as if he had run all the way to King's Cross and back. Concerned now, she reached out for him and found him leaning heavily on the wall, absolutely drenched and dripping all over the floor.

“ _Dermo_!” she swore, “Holy hell, Sherlock, what happened? Take that coat off and sit down before you fall down!” Lio left him for a moment to grab some towels, and found him still in the hall, but the gasps for air were coming from much lower to the ground. Shaking her head, Lio knelt next to him and helped him out of his coat, socks, and shoes. “All right, easy, deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

“I'm not having...a panic...attack,” he said between breaths, but did as she asked anyway.

“Don't care. It'll help. Can you make it to the couch? We've gotta get you out of those wet clothes, too, or you'll end up with pneumonia. What'd you do, fall in the Thames?” Lio joked, trying to stem the rising tide of panic at the state of him.

Sherlock began to lever himself off the floor, and Lio ducked under him to wrap his arm around her shoulders. “If you go down, I don't think I'll be able to get you back up,” she said with a groan of effort as Sherlock leaned on her. 

They made it, barely, and Lio all but dropped him. He landed with a grunt of pain, but still ground out, “It wasn't the Thames.”

Lio snorted. “Well, that's great, I guess. How bad are you hurt?” she asked, and put her hands on the crown of his head, feeling for injuries. Sherlock let her do it, which was more than a little alarming. Lio continued her “exam,” trailing her hands down the back of his neck to his shoulders, when he finally tensed and pulled away.

“Stop,” he ordered quietly. “I'm fine.”

Lio stepped back, hands on hips. “You are most certainly not. You come in here like that and expect me to believe you're fine?” She retrieved the towels left by the door and threw them in Sherlock's lap. “I'm going to find my first aid kit, and by the time I come back, you better have taken off your fucking clothes and dried off.” 

Finding himself thinking about how Lio's mouth got filthier the more stressed she became, Sherlock shook his head to clear it, and sent water droplets flying off the ends of his hair. He swayed a little after struggling to his feet, but was finally able to divest himself of his shirt and trousers. He nearly fell back onto the couch, and used all but one towel to dry off as best he could. The other towel he wrapped around the gash in his thigh, which was bleeding steadily.

Lio came back into the room with the first aid kit and laid it on the floor near Sherlock's feet. “Oh, now I can smell the blood. Where's it coming from?”

“My leg.”

Snapping on a pair of gloves, she asked, “You're not allergic to latex are you?”

“No. I really don't think--” he bit off a gasp as she found the wound under the towel.

“ _Yebat_ ,” she breathed. “Sherlock, even I can tell this is bad. It needs stitches. I think we should call an ambulance.”

“No! I can't...No hospitals. Just...bandage it.”

“It's too big and deep for that. What the fuck did you do anyway?” she snapped, and ignored the hiss of pain from Sherlock as she put more pressure on the wound with one hand and rummaged through the first aid kit for a roll of bandages with the other.

“Rebar. There was...a construction site...that looked suspicious....” he trailed off.

Unspooling the roll of bandages over the towel, she waited for him to continue. “Sherlock!” she barked after a moment, and he jerked back awake.

“It was...unstable, and I...fell into a...reservoir.”

Lio let her eyes close slowly and she shook her head in disbelief. “Okay. Okay. Are you hurt anywhere else? Your breathing still sounds like shit.”

It was another few moments before he was able to answer, “I may have...a broken rib...or two.”

“Okay, I'm gonna call an ambulance,” Lio said and stood. 

Sherlock grabbed her wrist. “No,” he growled.

“Let me call someone! What about Mycroft? Sherlock, I can't help you! _I can't see what's wrong_.”

“He'd...rub...it...in...”

Lio listened to the sentence fade out and gave his face a smack. “Sherlock! Sherlock fucking Holmes!” She was near panicking now; this helpless feeling brought back unpleasant memories. This man could bleed out on her couch if she didn't do something drastic. She considered calling Mycroft, but Sherlock was right, he needed a doctor, not the government.

Ripping off the bloodied gloves, she reached for her phone and without thinking about the consequences, called the clinic. “Please be in, please be in, please be in...” she chanted as she hopped from one foot to the other until someone answered. “Yes! My name is Liolya Verednikov, a patient of Dr. Watson's, and I need to speak to him. It's an emergency.” Lio unconsciously held her breath while she was on hold.

“Lio! The receptionist said you had an emergency. What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry to bother you like this, but I didn't know who else to call. My flatmate's...had an accident.”

“He should probably go to A&E then. Why--”

“He's adamant about no hospitals, or I would've done that first.” She paused, and said in an increasingly distressed tone, “I can't see the injury, I can't tell if it's still bleeding, I can't help him! I don't know what to do.”

“All right, all right. Give me a few minutes to settle things here, and then I'll head over, okay? Just hang on.”

“Thank you,” she said, and hung up. Realizing she was close to crushing the phone in the death grip she had it in, Lio took a deep breath and forced herself to relax a bit. “All right, get it together. What can you do until he gets here?” With that in mind, she made sure Sherlock was as dry as possible and managed to maneuver him into a prone position on the couch. She elevated the leg as best she could with a couch cushion. Going to a hall closet, she grabbed a blanket and laid it over him, then tossed the sopping towels into the bathroom. Having run out of things she was able to do for Sherlock, Lio settled in to wait and to listen to Sherlock's breathing.

Normally Lio had a decent internal clock, but with all the stress she wasn't sure how much time had passed before there was a knock on the door that made her jump. Thinking about how she was going to break this to John had the headache that had been slowly building since Sherlock came back reach its peak. Taking another steadying breath, she opened the door, but blocked John from actually coming inside.

“Lio, it's John Watson.”

“I know. Listen...He's not going to like that I brought you here, but I didn't see any alternative, and he's pretty hurt.”

“It's all right. This is a bit unusual, but you sounded quite stressed on the phone.”

“I'm sorry, it's...I didn't think...” She trailed off and sighed. “Just... brace yourself,” she said, and stepped back to let him in.

Finding that warning particularly strange, John entered the living room.

The medical bag slid from his suddenly numb fingers. Sherlock Holmes. The man he'd thought dead for over two years. Here. 

John felt a hand tentatively rest on his shoulder and he rounded on Lio. “You knew!”

Dropping her hand, Lio shook her head vehemently. “I only found out yesterday who you were, at the cafe. I'm sor--”

“Just don't,” he spat. He ran his hands through his hair and then retrieved the bag. “Right. I'm going to pretend that I don't know who that is so I can do my job. Tell me what happened,” John said and went to Sherlock's side.

“He said he was investigating at a construction site. Apparently it wasn't as stable as he thought, and he fell. Hit some rebar on the way down and landed in a reservoir. He said he might have some broken ribs and then there's the thigh wound. That's really all I know. I didn't find any other injuries, but...” she trailed off with a shrug.

John pulled the blanket back and swore under his breath. While the gash in his leg was the most pressing injury, the scars that littered Sherlock's chest and extremities spoke volumes of his overall condition. The largest was a fading stripe that ran from just under his left clavicle and stopped an inch above his navel. Turning his attention back to the still-bleeding wound, John got to work.

“Lio, I'm going to need you to hold this closed as best you can,” he said, and handed her a pair of gloves from his bag. They worked in relative silence for nearly an hour, with John occasionally instructing Lio where to move her hands as he carefully stitched the wound closed. Both of them were tense and sweating at the end, but when Lio sat on the floor and leaned against the couch, John continued to examine Sherlock, poking at the shiny red pucker of the freshly healed bullet wound and feeling for broken ribs. Discovering that they were not, in fact, broken, John heaved Sherlock onto his side to check his back. He frowned when he saw much the same scarring there as well. “What have you done to yourself, Sherlock?” John said quietly. Turning to Lio, he said “He's a mess.”

“Hmm. I wondered about that,” she replied tiredly, eyes closed. “When he first arrived, he wasn't in the greatest shape either, but he insisted on wandering around the city 'gathering data.'”

“Well, he's stable at the moment at least. I'm going to wash up, then you and I need to talk.”

Nodding in understanding, Lio pushed herself to her feet, and while John took over the bathroom, she used the kitchen sink. When she finished, she made some tea. 

John came back and sat at the kitchen table just as the kettle boiled, and Lio poured two cups, gauging the level of liquid in them by holding the cups between her thumb and forefinger and feeling the heat as it rose. 

As she handed a cup to John, he remarked, “I thought you would have judged if it was full by the tea itself rather than the heat.”

“I discovered quite quickly that people don't like it when you put your fingers in their drinks so now I try to use temperature. Sometimes I cheat, though. Don't tell Sherlock,” she said, and joined him at the table.

John's mouth pressed into a line at the mention of Sherlock. “Why did you call me?”

Lio sighed. “I told you. I didn't know what else to do. That injury wasn't something I could handle.”

“Yes, but why me? Why not another doctor? You knew who I was yesterday, and you still chose to bring me here, with just a vague 'brace yourself' as a warning!”

“It had to be you because I knew you could be trusted. What should I have done? Said 'oh yeah, the guy you've thought dead for two years is alive and bleeding out on my couch.' You wouldn't have believed me.”

“You could have left that decision to me, and trusted with what?” John said angrily.

“No one knows he's in London. I've done some research; he was kind of famous. Knowing his luck, the paramedics would have recognized him and then all his work would be for nothing.”

“What work?” John's voice was gradually increasing in volume the angrier he got.

“Moriarty, John!” Lio shouted back.

“Moriarty's dead. Or was that faked too?” he said bitterly.

“You don't honestly think that he worked alone, do you?” Lio scoffed. “The man had...tentacles...everywhere!” She waggled her fingers in emphasis. “That's why Sherlock was gone for so long: he was getting rid of the whole network.”

“So you're defending him?”

She waved a hand. “I'm not saying that what Sherlock did to you wasn't shitty, but you've got to see at least why he did it.”

“Oh yes, the game,” John said sarcastically.

“It wasn't the fucking game!” Lio roared and slammed her hands down on the table. “He did it to protect you!” She froze for a second, surprised at her own outburst, then blew out a breath. “That's...sorry,” she said quietly, and massaged her temples. “Look, I know what it's like. I know what it's like to be left behind. You've got a right to be angry. In fact, you should be angry, because that's a terrible thing to put someone through. Just try to remember that he had a good reason.”

Quieter now, but still seething, John said, “To protect me. From what?”

“He told me there were people prepared to kill you if things didn't go Moriarty's way.”

“I'm not that fragile.”

“It wasn't meant to be an affront to your masculinity,” said a quiet, weary voice from the living room. Both John and Lio looked over at Sherlock, who was propped up on his elbows. “Thank you for defending my honor, such as it is, Lio, but ultimately unnecessary.”

Lio sucked on her top teeth, making a “tsking” noise. “Well, I know a dismissal when I hear one. I'll be in my room, hopefully napping. Try not to kill each other,” she said, narrowing her eyes and pinning Sherlock with a glare before leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dermo-shit  
> yebat-fuck


	6. Regrets and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> extra long chapter, also some talk of depression and suicidal thoughts, talk of torture. here's about where the violence starts and then it'll ramp up in upcoming chapters

“John--” Sherlock started.

John held up a hand. “No. I want you to listen. Two and a half years, Sherlock. You've been alive all this time and couldn't be arsed to send one simple message? Something to tell me that you were all right? Just one would have been enough,” he said through a tightly clenched jaw.

“I couldn't risk it,” Sherlock said, and struggled into a sitting position with a wince. “Everyone had to believe I was dead, including you. Especially you. If Moriarty's men thought for a moment that you didn't believe I was dead, they would have killed you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. 'One simple message' would've ruined everything.”

Pushing himself away from the kitchen table, John stood and balled his fists. “I don't need protecting, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Yes, as you've repeatedly said. Maybe not from common criminals, but from Moriarty? Definitely.”

“Moriarty's dead, and if what Lio told me is true, so is most of his network. When you came back, why not tell me? Or anyone? You'd rather trust a blind stranger than your best friend?”

“As usual, you see but don't observe. Most of his network, John. There's still the most dangerous man in it left. Sebastian Moran was the sniper targeting you, the man Moriarty trusted enough to be his right hand. As for Lio, at first she was merely a convenience. I didn't even tell her my name until the second day, when it became apparent that Moran would not be as easily found as I hoped. Even Mycroft was useless.”

John chuckled humorlessly. “Oh yeah, of course he would know.”

“Unfortunately, not even I could pull off something like this without his help. He'll never let me forget it.”

“So, random woman, your brother, anyone else?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “This is becoming tedious, John.”

“Tedious?” John shouted incredulously, then stalked up to Sherlock and towered over him. His hands clenched and unclenched at his side in an effort to not drive a fist into Sherlock's nose, the left trembling badly. “I'll tell you what's tedious,” he spat. “It's being unable to even look at St. Bart's without seeing you fall from the roof. It's waking up after a few hours' sleep because I keep watching you die in my nightmares. It's being constantly afraid of those nightmares, so I'd do anything to avoid sleeping or I'd self-medicate to the point of unconsciousness just to spare myself the dreams. It's the ritual I had during the first three months where I went to your grave every day, thinking that would be the day I woke up. It's sitting alone at Baker Street after those three months, after losing my job, and holding my gun in my hands and wondering if today would be the day I'd finally get the courage to use it. It's either Lestrade or your bloody brother coming by to make sure I hadn't.”

Sherlock's eyes had been widening gradually as John spoke. “I—I didn't know. John, I didn't know.”

John snorted, and collapsed into a chair opposite Sherlock. “How could you.”

“I asked Mycroft, several times in fact. He told me you were fine,” Sherlock said with a frown.

“That first year nearly killed me.”

“How did you--”

John cut him off. “Lestrade mostly. I'm sure he was hurting too, but he kept calling and 'dropping by.' Sometimes he would come with me to the cemetery. Sometimes we'd go to a pub, have a few pints, talk about anything but you. Mrs. Hudson, too. I tried to keep it together for her. Whenever I found myself with the gun in my hands, I'd think of her. She would be the one to find me and I couldn't do that to her. I couldn't leave her the way you left me.”

Sherlock flinched, but then met John's eyes. “I'm sorry. Unimaginably sorry.”

John sighed. “I know. I know, but...” He scrubbed his face with his hands, then said. “How do you feel?”

“Like I fell off a building.”

“Sherlock!”

“Did you check my ribs?”

“Yes. They're not broken, just badly bruised. You'll be in pain and stiff for a while with that leg wound.” John hesitated for a few breaths, then asked, “Where did the scars come from?”

Sherlock ran a thumb over one of his wrists in an almost unconscious gesture, drawing John's attention. He noticed two inch-long marks on either side of both. “These are from Kashmir. I went undercover and infiltrated a gang, but as a test of my loyalty, they suspended me from ceiling joists with handcuffs. Then they carved into my back with a sword.” Sherlock let his eyes close, momentarily taken back to the most painful experience of his time away. He hunched forward slightly on the couch, as if he could still feel the blade biting into his flesh. After a quick shake of his head, he continued, “I was not allowed to react or the test would be over. I passed, obviously, and succeeded in bringing the group down after five months.”

“How?” John asked quietly, noticing Sherlock's discomfort but not commenting on it.

“I gained enough influence to convince the leaders that they needed to make sure all of their hired thugs were as loyal as I. When every single member arrived at the den, I locked them inside and set it on fire.”

A stifled gasp escaped the hand John clapped over his mouth.

“Oh, don't look so scandalized, John.”

“They were human beings, Sherlock, and you burned them alive. I'm not sure anything warrants that.”

“They didn't burn to death; they were already dead of smoke inhalation. Let me put it more sentimental terms that even you should be able to understand. This particular cell was responsible for the rape and murder of over two hundred young Indian girls and boys during a three year period.”

“Two hundred? My God. The police--”

“These were the police. I was in Pakistani controlled Kashmir. The head of police in this particular area was on Moriarty's payroll. If he could silence the pro-India or pro-independence forces, he would quickly be promoted from a provincial officer to a more coveted position in the military. The murders would have continued if I didn't eradicate the cell.”

“Jesus.” 

“I've told you before to not make me into a hero. I'm only slightly less reprehensible than the enemy. Though I will admit that episode was the most...unnerving...of my travels.”

“More so than what gave you that?” John asked, with a nod at Sherlock's chest.

“Ah, yes. Turkey. I was in Diyarbakir, dismantling a cell, and the local police were not appreciative. I was arrested and imprisoned. The four other men with whom I was forced to share the room did not take kindly to a foreigner in their midst.”

“No, you mean you started picking them apart and offended them. So what'd they do to you?”

“A crude knife. Honestly, John, I only told them the truth. The smallest of the four was going to turn on them the first chance he got. Not that it mattered, since the guard was going to make sure they hanged. They didn't know it, but my four friends had robbed the father of the guard.”

“How do you manage to figure that out when you don't speak the language?” John wondered.

Sherlock scoffed. “Lying is a universal language, John, but I know enough Turkish to get by. The injury was a blessing, actually, since it meant a trip out of the cell. That's when I made my escape.”

“Amazing.”

Sherlock grinned.

Seeing Sherlock's expression, John added, “That you didn't bleed to death! It's wonder you lasted three weeks, let alone nearly three years on your own. How did you manage? You certainly haven't been eating properly; I could probably play your ribs like a xylophone, and you're not sleeping regularly either since it looks like you're about to nod off right here.”

“Yes, Mummy. Anything else you'd like to needlessly worry about?” Sherlock said, a ghost of a smile still on his face.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” John said, and pointed a finger at him for emphasis. “Have you thought about the danger you're putting Lio in? If you think I can't protect myself, what about her? She's not exactly the picture of health, Sherlock.”

“She's aware of the risks. She's a lot like you. Apparently I go for the damaged, former military type.”

“Military?” John repeated, ignoring the qualifier. 

“Oh, I wouldn't expect you to see it since it's quite subtle and almost overpowered by the blindness, but yes, she was in a Russian special forces group during the Chechen war. Her records are well-sealed; Mycroft's been trying to put together a file.”

“Why Mycroft?”

“Mm. This is the successor to the KGB and not Scotland Yard. I can't just hack into it. It's rare that he gets interested in someone. I told you she was a lot like you.”

“Sounds like you've found my replacement, then,” John said, a hint of bitterness flavoring the words.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock said quickly. “You're still my 'conductor of light.' Lio's the opposite.”

John snorted. “What, a conductor of darkness? That's a bit melodramatic, even for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I mean that her moral gray area is a bit darker than yours. When I said I would be staying, she told me she used to be a murderer.”

Now it was John's turn to roll his eyes. “Yeah, melodrama. A lot of people in the military sometimes think of themselves as murderers. I don't think she's much different.”

Sherlock was shaking his head before John even finished speaking. “No, John, she was in a state-sanctioned hit-squad. She is very different.”

John's brow furrowed. “I don't think we should be talking about her like this when she's not in the room. In fact, you should be following her example and resting. Come on, let's get you to bed,” he said, and reached out to help Sherlock to his feet.

Sherlock stubbornly batted it away. “I can do it myself!” he snapped, and lurched to his feet. His vision immediately tunneled and John had to grab him before his legs buckled.

“Right. Let's go.”

John knew Sherlock had to be exhausted if he was only putting up a token fight. He helped Sherlock hobble to bed and instead of climbing in like a normal person, Sherlock threw himself on top. “Oh, honestly. Can you stop acting like a child for two seconds?”

“Hmf,” came the muffled reply. Sherlock was face down in the pillow.

“You realize that you're nearly naked, right? You'll freeze.”

His response this time was a clearly fake snore.

“You--” John stopped himself, left, and returned with one of the blankets from the living room. He tossed it at Sherlock. “Here, you great twat. I'm going to hang around for a while in case either of you need anything,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Thank you, John.”

John turned back around and met Sherlock's eyes. “You're welcome.”

John was intending to clean up a bit and maybe watch some telly, but once he made sure Lio's couch wasn't blood soaked (in fact, it miraculously had only a fist-sized spot which he scrubbed with cold water) he sprawled out on it, drained from the past few hours. John had lost a lot of friends over the years, yet none of their deaths affected him like Sherlock's. Suicidal thoughts weren't entirely new to him; he'd had more than a few both during and immediately after the war, but the frequency and severity of them those first few months after were almost enough on their own to ruin him. The nightmares were some of the worst he'd ever had, including those about the war, and they were nearly nightly. He'd taken to sleeping with his bedside lamp on for awhile, hoping it would help. It hadn't. He'd gotten completely piss drunk more often than he'd care to admit since an alcoholic stupor seemed to be the only way to ward off the night terrors, but he always felt terrible in the morning, and not always due to a hangover. It took a lot of work from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson to finally pull him out of the hole he'd dug himself, and John wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to repay them for it. As he dozed off, John realized the couch smelled vaguely of Sherlock, which he found oddly comforting. 

**

Something woke John about two hours later. He lie still for a moment, collecting himself, and trying to figure out what roused him. 

There. It sounded like a groan, and John's thoughts immediately went to Sherlock. Hoping he hadn't missed any wounds, John got up and headed to Sherlock's room, only to find him also awake, and propped up with his back against the headboard. He had put a shirt on sometime after John left him, but hadn't bothered with pants so he was still in his undershorts.

“Ah, John,” he said.

“Are you--” John started, looking at the wrapped wound on his thigh.

“Yes, I'm fine. It's Lio.”

“A nightmare?” John ventured.

“Mm. She's had them on 78 percent of the nights I've been here. I suspect the stress of the past few hours has something to do with it.”

“Should we wake her?'

Sherlock shrugged. “I never have, but you're welcome to. This one does seem a bit more intense than the others.”

John hesitated for a moment, but the shouted “ _Net_!” made his mind up for him.

**

The intelligence suggested the cell was small, between six and ten men. It was decided that Lio's five-man team should be enough to handle the insurgents, and that decision was not changed even after the fifth man, Sergei Alenin, came down with an infection and was removed from the mission. Based on similar incidents in the area, however, Lio was still confident the four of them would be successful. They would strike in the pre-dawn hours, kill or capture any and all Chechen separatists on the property, destroy any weapons caches, and return to base. The mission would take less than two hours.

The Chechens were occupying a cabin in the forest just south-east of the town of Samashki. The location didn't allow for much freedom of movement or direct line of sight to the cabin, so the team would have to be quick and stealthy. Lio and her partner Ivan would lead a frontal assault with tear gas and flash bangs to subdue those inside, while Dmitry and Alexei would prevent anyone escaping through the rear. They came across two sentries on their way to cabin, but they were quietly dealt with.

Upon reaching the location, Lio downgraded her assessment of the insurgents. This couldn't even be qualified as a cabin; it was nothing more than a hunter's shack. Before splitting up, she had one last meeting with her team.

“I don't like this,” was Alexei's immediate response as they came together. The other two men nodded in agreement.

Lio shrugged. “It does look a little shady, but we can do this. In and out, all right?”

Once Dmitry and Alexei had circled around behind the shack, Lio and Ivan stormed the front, throwing a flash grenade, then tear gas into the building.

Silence, and Lio and Ivan looked at each other for a moment. Suddenly they heard the sounds of a scuffle behind the shack, but before she was able to act, Lio felt a sharp pain at the back of her head that reverberated through the helmet and rattled her teeth. She struggled to stay conscious, but her vision swam, then darkened, and she fell.

Lio awoke an unknown amount of time later, and to her horror realized that all four of them had been captured. They were stripped of their body armor and weapons, and utterly vulnerable to the terrorists that now held them. They all had one Chechen at their back, holding them in a kneeling position, and one man at the front, whom Lio assumed was the leader of this cell. Though it sickened her to admit it, Lio knew that she had grossly underestimated this group.

“Oh good,” the leader said, “the little woman's awake. See, this is why women shouldn't be in such a position. They get everyone killed.”

Lio said nothing.

“Don't want to talk? That's fine,” the leader said, and nodded to the man behind Alexei. 

“Wait!” Lio shouted. “I'm the ranking officer. You want information, take it from me, but let my men go.”

“Take it from you, hm?” he said, and stepped towards Lio. He almost gently ran a finger from her temple down to her chin, where he lifted it so she looked him in the eye. Lio struggled not to recoil and clenched her jaw. He backed up a few paces. “I would love to take you, but I have instructions to kill you all, so...” he waved his free hand and the first man fired once. Alexei fell forward, dead.

“No!” Lio screamed.

Dmitry and Ivan were next, both falling in quick succession. Blood from Ivan's head wound splattered Lio's face. She managed to get one foot firmly planted under herself and tried to lunge for the leader, but just as she moved, there was another shot and the lights went out.

**

John opened the door to Lio's room and saw her thrashing around on the bed, clawing at her face and eyes. He immediately moved to restrain her. She was also mumbling something in Russian, but it was quickly turning from a mumble to a panicked mantra. “Lio!” John shouted. “C'mon, wake up.”

“ _Pochemu ya ne mogu uvidet_?”

“Yeah, don't speak Russian,” John muttered, and shook Lio a little before yelling her name again.

“ _Ya ne vizhu! Ya ne vizhu! Ya ne vizhu_!”

John was suddenly thrown off balance as Sherlock shoved him out of the way. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock smacked Lio once across the face, a sharp open-handed slap.

Lio's eyes snapped open, but then she threw an arm across them. “ _Bozhe_ ,” she groaned.

“You were having a nightmare,” John said.

“I woke you,” Sherlock said with a hint of smugness.

She pushed herself into a sitting position and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Sorry,” Lio said, and rubbed her face. She frowned. “Did someone hit me?”

“That was Sherlock.”

“Thanks. I hate that dream.” She scratched absently at a spot on the back of her head and stood. “I need a drink.”

John followed her into the kitchen, while Sherlock limped slowly to the sofa. “You're on Tegretol. You shouldn't drink,” John said.

Ignoring John's warning, Lio opened a cupboard and pulled down a bottle of vodka. “Want any?”

“Ah, no thanks. I don't drink straight vodka at eleven in the morning. Or at all,” John said, and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Sherlock?”

“Vodka. How predictable.”

Lio shrugged. “I'm Russian, of course I drink vodka. Although this happens to be Ukrainian.” She opened the bottle and sniffed it, before pouring about two inches worth into a glass. She recapped the bottle and put it away.

“Lio, alcohol and--” John tried again, before Lio cut him off.

“I know, John, I know. A little bit won't hurt. Just enough to take the edge off. My tolerance is shit now anyway.”

The three of them sat in silence for a few minutes while Lio finished her drink. “So,” she began, leaning on the kitchen counter and setting the empty glass on it, “when are you leaving?”

“I'm not,” Sherlock replied.

Lio narrowed her eyes and frowned. “Why not? Now that John knows you're alive, there's no reason you can't go live with him again.”

“That John knows I'm still alive doesn't change the fact that I don't want anyone else to know.”

“You can keep your secret just as well with him as with me.”

“You guys do realize I'm still in the room, right?” John interrupted bemusedly.

Lio turned to him. “Please convince him to leave with you.”

Before John could reply, there was a knock at the door.

Lio ambled over, in no hurry to let the visitor in. “Ugh, just what we needed.”

“Miss Verednikov. I get the impression that you're not overly fond of me. Ah, Doctor Watson. Good to see you again,” Mycroft said, and went to Sherlock. “The files you requested.”

“It's about time,” Sherlock snapped, and snatched the papers from Mycroft.

“Do take care with those, Sherlock. I had to incur considerable debt to acquire them.”

Sherlock took a closer look at the papers in his hands and his eyebrows rose a fraction. “Oh, these files.”

Mycroft tutted a bit as he glanced at the bandage around Sherlock's thigh. “Well, I see why Miss Verednikov had to call you, John.”

“Right, well, someone has to take care of him. Lord knows what you were doing.”

“John...” Sherlock warned.

John shook his head. “No no, I think I'm allowed to be a bit pissed off at your brother. He lied to me too, you know.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh.

“Oh, I get that you wanted to protect me, but I don't get why you two had to let me go on believing you were dead, Sherlock. Especially you, Mycroft. You saw. You saw how bad it was. You had to know how many times I thought about putting a bullet in my brain,” John said tightly, glaring at Mycroft.

Mycroft met his gaze evenly. “Yes, and I am...” he struggled for a moment for the right word, “...interminably sorry. Although, as I'm sure Miss Verednikov will attest to, a bullet in the brain is not always fatal.”

Lio rolled her head along with her eyes in an over-dramatic gesture of defeat. “Mycroft, why are you here? You don't just drop off files yourself. You've got people for that.” She paused, taking in a slow breath and narrowing her eyes. “It must be pretty important then, and I'd think it'd be about Moran, but Sherlock hasn't shuffled the papers once. He knows what it is, obviously, and was expecting it, though he's not sharing it with us,” here she indicated herself and John, “which means it's probably about one of us, but most likely me, since you suddenly know I was shot in the head, something not even Sherlock was able to deduce. And you don't acquire 'considerable debt' by getting a file on a doctor. So let me ask you, why do you have a file on me?”

Sherlock looked slightly impressed. “Well done. There was very little in the public realm on you or your time in the service, so I unfortunately had to ask Mycroft to get more information.” John would probably deem it a “bit not good,” but Sherlock opened the file and began to read. “Oh, it's translated. Good of you, brother.”

Mycroft hummed. “I know how absolutely atrocious your Cyrilic comprehension is.”

Lio slammed her hand down on the counter. “Don't fucking ignore me!”

“Lio,” John began, but she silenced him with an icy glare.

“Too many times, Sherlock. You've invaded my privacy too many times. It's one thing to find stuff around here to snoop through, but then you have to get government sealed files. Why couldn't you have just asked?” she said, holding her hands out pleadingly.

“Would you have told me?”

“Maybe. No. I don't know.”

“That's why I needed the files,” he said. He scanned through a few more pages. “Would you have told me you made a mistake and that's what led to the deaths of your teammates? The intelligence was all wrong. How stupid.”

“Sherlock!” John yelled. “Why don't--” he turned to Lio, but stopped when he looked at her.

Lio was very, very still, hands clenched into fists, but her wide eyes started to seesaw, as if she couldn't keep them centered. “How. Dare. You,” she breathed, and began advancing on Sherlock, who seemed to realize that he had done something more than a “bit” not good. “You think I don't know it was my fault? That I don't wake up every morning, in darkness, and remember that I killed them?” She was nearly standing over Sherlock now, and he watched a slight tremor run through her body. He threw a glance at John, who was also watching Lio, but his eyes were darting over her frame, most likely worried about her physical condition. “To answer your question, Sherlock,” she spat his name venomously, “no, I would not have told you. As for _you_ ,” she spun around to face Mycroft, jabbing a finger in his direction, “You enabling motherfu--” She stopped mid-sentence, head cocked to one side, and all the tension suddenly drained from her.

Mycroft was a bit grateful to be spared a tirade, especially one as vulgar as Lio's was shaping up to be, but the abrupt change in her demeanor was disconcerting. “Miss Verednikov? Are you all right?”

“... _Chto_...?” she asked in Russian, her mouth pulling into a confused frown.

John quickly went to her side and gently took her elbow. “Come on, Lio, I think you need to sit down.”

“... _Sest_?” she slurred the question this time, and was looking increasingly bewildered. She didn't move.

“Sherlock, push the coffee table out of the way. Mycroft, you should probably call an ambulance,” John ordered, still trying to get Lio to sit.

“A seizure,” Sherlock stated, doing as John asked and kicking the table out of the way with his good leg. 

John nodded just as Lio went rigid. He barely managed to guide her to the floor when she lost consciousness a second later and went into a full tonic-clonic seizure. “Ambulance, Mycroft? Or Sherlock; I don't really care who at this point,” John said, trying to keep track of how long Lio's convulsions lasted while also making sure she didn't hurt herself on anything. 

Mycroft walked into the hall for a few moments while he called for an ambulance. He came back into the living room after providing the necessary information and said, “They're on the way. Sherlock, I suggest you put some pants on.”

Sherlock stood stiffly. 

“Grab her medications too, if you would, Sherlock,” John said, “they'll need to know and that's faster than going through her records.” He checked his watch. “Just under two minutes so far.”

“Is there anything else you need, John?” Mycroft asked, feeling uncharacteristically useless.

“No. There's nothing to do but wait till it stops. She'll probably still be a little confused when it does, so if you or Sherlock could translate—oh!” 

The convulsions had stopped, but Lio was still unconscious. John was rolling her on to her side when Sherlock limped back in to the room, fully clothed and carrying Lio's prescriptions.

“About two and a half minutes. Good. Hopefully she doesn't have another,” John said and sat back on his heels to wait. He checked Lio's pulse and respiration, and found them both to be a little fast, which was expected. “Lio,” he called gently. “Come on, wake up. You need to wake up now.”

Though her eyes remained closed, her brow furrowed, and she mumbled, “ _Menya toshnit_...”

“You just had a seizure, that's why you don't feel well,” Sherlock said. He could hear sirens approaching, finally.

“Just relax, Lio. There's an ambulance coming. We're going to get you to hospital,” John explained in a soft voice. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

She struggled a bit, but then her eyes opened and she turned her head a little.

“Good, good,” John said encouragingly, but he was frowning as he noted her eyes were “seesawing” much faster than earlier. It was if she was trying to focus on a spinning tire.

There was suddenly a shadow as Sherlock leaned over them. “The nystagmus is worse.”

The sirens reached a crescendo then stopped, and Mycroft finally found something to do by letting the paramedics in.

John immediately launched into a description of events as they rushed over: “Patient had a seizure lasting about two and half minutes. She's conscious, but slow to react and is a little confused. Breathing and heart rate are within normal limits. She has a history of seizures, but hasn't had one in sixteen months. She suffered a traumatic brain injury about ten years ago.”

“Twelve,” Sherlock corrected as the paramedics loaded Lio onto a gurney. He held out the bag with her medications to John. “I can't be seen in public, and I highly doubt Mycroft is going to want to go on an ambulance ride.”

“Quite right.”

John shook his head at the both of them and followed Lio into the ambulance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pochemu ya ne mogu uvidet-why can't I see?  
> Ya ne vizhu! Ya ne vizhu! Ya ne vizhu-I can't see  
> chto-what  
> sest-sit


	7. Rage and Fire

John sat in what was probably the hospital's most uncomfortable chair, bouncing a leg to keep it from falling asleep and reading what was probably the hospital's trashiest tabloid. Lio was resting comfortably in the bed across from him. She'd had another seizure in the ambulance and two more after reaching the hospital, so as a precaution, she was going to be kept overnight. John was planning to stay at least until she woke up so she wouldn't be alone.

He'd texted Sherlock an hour or so ago, asking him to bring a change of clothes for Lio and at first Sherlock resisted, stating that he couldn't go out in public. Reminding him that his brother worked for the government and could simply erase his image from any CCTV cameras didn't work as Sherlock didn't want to rely on Mycroft. John then had to play dirty and tell him it was fine if he was afraid he couldn't sneak in. 

Sherlock came into the room with a bag of Lio's belongings and two coffees.

“I knew you couldn't resist a challenge,” John said smugly, taking a sip.

“I was getting bored,” Sherlock said and limped over to Lio's bedside. “Her breathing's changed. She should wake up soon.”

Unsurprisingly, Lio's eyelids fluttered and opened and her hands clenched the sheets. She took a long breath in.

“You're in hospital, Lio,” John said softly, “you had a seizure at home. We called an ambulance. Sherlock's here too. Do you remember what happened?”

“How many?” Lio asked quietly.

John looked confused at the question, somewhat surprised it was in English, but Sherlock answered, “Four. One in your living room, one in the ambulance, and two more here.”

Lio snorted softly around the nasal cannula. “Not even close to a record. Not worth gettin' all worked up for.” She let her head loll to the left to face them. “Y'don't have to be here, y'know. 'M used to this.”

“We're absolutely not leaving you alone. Your neurologist is due to check on you shortly. We'll stick around for that. How are you feeling? In any pain?” John asked.

“Jus' tired. Little sore.”

“From the muscle contractions. We made sure you didn't hit anything. You also didn't experience any incontinence, if you were worried about that,” Sherlock said.

John shot him a dirty look. Lio smirked. “Small favors, I guess.”

There was a knock on the door and a thin, white haired Indian man walked in. “You know I don't like seeing you like this, Lio,” he said disapprovingly.

“Sorry Doc,” Lio said, not sounding very sorry.

“Hmm. These two okay to be here while we go over things?”

Lio waved a hand. “Da da, they're fine. This is--”

Sherlock cut her off. “Scott Williams and Doctor John Watson.”

“Aarav Patel. You're aware of Lio's history?” at their nods, Dr Patel continued. “Good, less explaining. After you were stabilized, we conducted a CT scan to check for any hemorrhages or changes since last time and the good news is that we found no evidence of either.”

“It hasn't moved?” Lio asked.

“No shifting detected. The fragment is in the same place it has been for the past twelve years.”

Lio let out a slow breath.

“I'd like to see it, the CT. Or the x-ray if you have one.” Sherlock said.

“So nosy,” Lio said. “S'okay, Doc, he'll keep badgering until he sees one or the other.”

Dr Patel frowned, but brought up the CT scan. Sherlock and John both looked over his shoulder as the scan progressed. While they watched, Dr Patel addressed Lio, “We can rule that out as a cause for the seizures, so let's talk. What's life been like at home?” he asked.

John and Sherlock sat by quietly as Dr Patel spoke with Lio about recent events. While living with Sherlock was stressful, she didn't believe that was the singular cause.

“It may have been a combination of factors. Sixteen months was a good run for you, Lio. Don't let it get you down. I'm not going to change the dosage on the Tegretol since I believe that's been working well for you and this was a one-off. I am going to take you off baclofen since it's lost its effectiveness, though we might try gabapentin later. You may want to invest in a pair of dark glasses; the nystagmus or dancing eyes can be...'off-putting.' I'll let you rest for now, but I'll be back in the morning to discharge you.” Dr Patel squeezed her foot reassuringly as he liberated the CT scan footage from Sherlock and left.

“We should get going too. Sherlock brought a change of clothes for you for tomorrow, but we'll come back when you're discharged to bring you home. Is that all right with you?” John asked.

Lio yawned and nodded. “ _Da_ , that's fine. Thanks, both of you.”

*/*/*/*

John insisted on stopping for groceries on their way back to Lio's so they didn't make it back until early evening. After finishing their meal of Chinese takeaway, John was in the kitchen cleaning up while Sherlock read through Lio's file.

“I really don't think you should be doing that,” John said, drying his hands on a towel and joining Sherlock in the living room.

“She's not here. It makes sense, how she survived. It wasn't a bullet; just a fragment. What it doesn't say is why she took the mission in the first place. The intelligence...Her team was the most successful Alpha Group with 16 perfect missions. What was so special about this one?”

“You'd have to ask her that and I don't think she'd appreciate you continuing to snoop like this,” John said, frowning.

“You didn't care.”

John sighed. “I had-have-a lot less secrets. My army service was pretty straight forward. You said it yourself that she was part of state-sanctioned hit-squad. I imagine she's hiding a fair bit, especially since this is the Russian military. You also said we were different, so you shouldn't expect her to act like me. She's also a hell of a lot more damaged than I am.”

Sherlock hummed, then pinned John with an intense stare. “What you said to Mycroft this morning. Did you--” He cut himself off and looked away.

“I know how my gun tastes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's head jerked back to John.

“I had night terrors. I was afraid to sleep. I drank myself off my face a few times, but even that wasn't helpful. I didn't want to go Harry's route anyway. Swallowing a bullet seemed like the next best solution. Greg caught me once, just holding it, and I think that scared us both. He and Mycroft must've seen how bad it was getting; Mrs Hudson gave them both keys and they just let themselves in whenever. After Greg saw it, I didn't take it out again. In fact, I think he hid it somewhere. Thought about it often enough, though.” John shook his head. “Sorry.”

“What-” Sherlock cleared his throat and John looked surprised at the uncharacteristic stumble. “What on _earth_ do you have to be sorry for? _I_ did that to you. _I'm_ sorry. My God, John, I am so sorry. I can't even begin to apologize for what I put you through. I didn't realize that my death would affect you so much.” He frowned. “I didn't understand the affect of sentiment.”

“I know. This isn't going to go away, two and half years of that kind of...I need time.”

“Of course, whatever you need John, and I need time to catch Moran. Once he's taken care of, I can come back to Baker Street and--”

John held up a hand. “One thing at a time. Stop Moran, then we'll worry about after.”

*+*+*+*+

John escorted Lio home the next day, making sure she was settled back in before heading out. He made her promise to contact him in case of an emergency, but for now he and Sherlock would communicate only as necessary through Mycroft until Moran was caught.

Lio and Sherlock were in the living room in silence, Lio sprawled out on the couch with her eyes closed and Sherlock sitting in a chair, thumbing through files. He stopped for a moment and looked at Lio thoughtfully.

“Just ask, Sherlock,” Lio said drowsily.

“This has gone on long enough. John thought you'd be angry if you knew I read what Mycroft gave me, but I can't have any more distractions. I need to focus everything on Moran.”

“I would've been impressed if you'd been able to restrain yourself, to be honest. I expected you to. So ask,” she said, eyes still closed.

“Why that mission? No one on your team was up for a promotion or transferring to another Alpha unit. Neither were any of your superiors. There was no rush to complete that mission with such shoddy intelligence. You were all more experienced than that. So why?”

“I got cocky and stupid and didn't listen to my instincts. Even up to the last moments, everything inside me was screaming to walk away, but I figured we could handle it.” She finally opened her eyes and looked at Sherlock. “That report must leave out an interview I had. The former head of the FSB was impressed with the work we'd done, and wanted me to head an FSB task force. He said he'd run it by the current director. This was mid-2003; I don't have to name names do I?”

“You spoke with--?” Sherlock was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“For all of fifteen minutes, _da_. Obviously nothing came of it; I was supposed to talk to the director after our next mission. We know how that turned out.”

“The gun misfired. The bullet fractured in the barrel, and a fragment was driven into your brain. It's the only reason you survived.”

She snorted. “Pure dumb luck. The surgeons in Krasnodar managed to remove the skull fragments that were driven in with it. I was transferred to Moscow once I was stable enough to move. Spent a few weeks in an induced coma while the swelling went down, and another...seven, eight months after that re-learning how to function and another two years in a half-way house of sorts before doctors were comfortable letting me live alone. Then I spent three years in a shitty Moscow apartment before I decided I had enough of Russia and moved here.” Her phone buzzed and she sat up, turning to plant her feet on the floor. “Drug time,” she muttered to herself, and to Sherlock, “You know enough to satisfy your curiosity and can focus on Moran, _da_?” 

Sherlock nodded. “For now, yes. I need to know why he's here.”

Lio left him to it, still too worn out and sore to try and help. She put herself to bed around seven, the muscle relaxants she'd been given for pain making her even drowsier. She didn't rejoin Sherlock in the living room until well after ten the next morning. He didn't seem to have moved much.

“Did you eat?”

There was silence from Sherlock.

“I don't even know why I ask, honestly,” she said with an eye roll and felt around in the fridge. “Huh, John needs to shop for me more often. You bought eggs? Scrambled okay? Is that bacon too?”

Met with more silence, Lio busied herself in the kitchen. A short while later she called to him “Breakfast is served, my lord.”

He tsked reprovingly, but got up to join her. “You don't have to do this.”

“If I don't, I get the feeling you'd live on tea. Besides, it's rare that I do the whole bacon and eggs thing, so this is as much for me as it is for you. Don't expect a full English, though; baked beans in the morning is...” She made a face, squinting her eyes closed and sticking out her tongue. “So, any breakthroughs?”

“No,” he all but growled.

“Talk it out with me. Why is Moran here?”

“I don't know!” he snapped

“You're Sherlock Holmes; you know everything,” ignoring his tone.

“Not this. This doesn't make sense. He's had ample opportunity to come after me, so why hasn't he? He has to know I'm here. I haven't exactly been 'laying low.' I've been actively hunting him. Mycroft's been hunting him. So what's holding him back?”

“We talked before about how he wants to draw you out.”

“I've been adequately drawn out the past few weeks, the construction site most recently.”

“What about the whole 'sentiment' thing?”

“I haven't gotten close to anyone.” At Lio's disbelieving and somewhat hurt glare, he amended, “Well, not in public. I haven't been seen with you. Even at the hospital, only your neurologist saw me. The only way for him to be compromised would be if Moran already knew about you. And if he already knew about you, you'd be dead by now.”

“Comforting,” Lio said with a grimace.

“The only person I've been out with is...oh God.” He leaped to his feet.

Lio seemed to realize it at the same time. She took a sharp inhale.

“John. We were at the hospital together, then we went to the shops for you,” he said, scrambling for his phone, pacing, wincing slightly as he put weight on his injured leg and dialing John's number. He hung up as it went to voicemail. Sherlock dialed Mycroft, still pacing, who picked up on the second ring. “Where's John?” he asked with no preamble. “You don't know? How can you not know! You're the British Government! Of course I called, he didn't answer! I will not stop shouting!” there was a beat of silence and then “He hung up on me, the absolute bastard!”

“Sherlock.”

“John is missing! _> I am going to boil Moran's teeth_,” Sherlock snarled.

Lio got up and stood in his path, putting her hands on his chest, just below his collarbones. His heart hammered madly under her palms. “Sherlock. Breathe. Getting this riled up doesn't do John any good. Assuming Moran has him, where would he go?”

Sherlock shoved her away, sending her stumbling slightly. “I need data for that! And there isn't any because Mycroft is fucking useless! Just like everyone else! I'll have to do this myself, as bloody usual, because the only person that has an ounce of sense has been kidnapped by a fucking sniper! In London!”

Lio punched him in the face. She'd been aiming for his cheek, but miscalculated how tall he was and ended up grazing his chin. It was still enough to stop his ranting.

“Are you going to shut the fuck up for a minute, or would you rather continue being a _mudak_?” she waited a few moments, and getting no response from Sherlock, continued, “Okay, first, you need to settle down and breathe for Chrissake. We have data, if you would stop to think instead of raving like a _bezumets_. We know Moran probably has John. We know he was taken sometime after he left here yesterday, so that's only what, twelve, fourteen hours ago? Moran was probably watching John, not you, and knew when to make his move. So, where would you start?”

“You...punched me,” Sherlock said, rubbing his jaw.

“You want me to do it again? 'Cause I will.”

“No, that's not necessary. You're right, about the data. There's a place to start,” he grabbed his coat and was about to open the door when there was a knock. He opened it to see Mycroft and Lestrade.

“Son of a bitch,” Lestrade said, pushing past Mycroft and enveloping Sherlock in a bear hug. “I didn't want to believe him. Mycroft explained everything, but I couldn't believe that you were still alive without seeing it for myself.”

“Yes well...I'm alive. You can let go now.”

Lestrade jumped back as if he'd been bitten. “Ah shit, sorry,” he rubbed the back of neck self-consciously. “So, what's the plan?”

Mycroft, who had been left behind on the steps to the flat, elbowed his way in and set a laptop on the kitchen table. “This is CCTV footage from outside Baker Street.”

Lestrade and Sherlock huddled around, watching intently. Sherlock began narrating. “This is yesterday, after he left here. He goes inside, no problems.” The footage fast forwarded roughly three hours before John exited the flat again. “He's leaving again, it's after nine at night; there's no reason he should be out and about...wait, is that the rubbish?”

John disappeared into the alley. And didn't come back out.

“We need to go to Baker Street. Now,” Sherlock said.

Lio snatched her cane from where it was leaning against the wall in the kitchen, but Sherlock stopped her from putting on her coat. “Lio. You shouldn't--”

“Don't even finish that sentence. I'm coming. I'm not as useless as you seem to think I am.”

“You're blind. You'll be more of a hindrance than a help.”

“Wait, she's blind?” Lestrade whispered to Mycroft.

Lio turned to him and held out her hand. “Excellent hearing though. Lio Verednikov.”

Taken a little aback, Lestrade shook it. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Sorry, I didn't mean to, y'know, make you uncomfortable or anything.”

“I have more combat experience than all three of you put together,” she said, pointing roughly at each of them. “I'm coming with you.”

“We don't have time for this. Do what you want.” Sherlock turned to Mycroft. “You brought a car? Let's go.”

“Wait a tic.” Lio trotted off to her room and came back, loading a clip into her handgun. “Ready.”

Lestrade looked like he wanted to protest, but was bustled out the door by Sherlock to the waiting car. They were driven to Baker Street in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mudak-asshole  
> bezumets-madman


	8. Breath and Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fair warning, i torture the shit out of John

John came to slowly, his head pounding and his left shoulder on fire. He cracked his eyes open, trying to take in his situation without being obvious. Determining that he was alone, he looked around more freely, taking care not to jostle his head too much. There was a cut in his hairline above his right eyebrow. He was more alarmed by his position: hanging by his wrists from—his head hurt too much to look up to try to see what it was. That explained why his shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. Looking down, he noted he was shirtless and shoeless. John rested his head against his right arm and tried to regulate his breathing. 

When he felt he had better control of himself and his head was no longer trying to turn itself inside out, John focused more on where he was. It seemed to be a sort of warehouse, and if the amount of hooks, pulleys and conveyor belts were any indication, possibly something to do with food processing or packaging. He was in the middle of a large room, held about 6 inches off a concrete floor with a hook through the zip ties that locked his wrists together. The hook was attached to something behind him that he wasn't able to twist himself enough to see. 

Other than the knot on his head, he wasn't injured, though the weight of his own body on his wrists and shoulders were becoming more painful by the second. He had no doubt that Sherlock would be looking for him, but that didn't mean he'd hang here and wait like a damsel in distress. He tensed the muscles in his arms and shoulders, “jumping” with his arms to try to slide the zip ties off the hook. Each attempt wrenched a pained grunt from John. His wrists were already raw and bleeding, but he kept at it until something popped in his left shoulder, causing him to howl in agony and black out.

John woke again to someone lightly tapping his face. He groaned.

“Hello Captain Watson.”

John's eyes snapped open.

“You've done quite a number on yourself. You're taking away all my fun.”

“You...You're...Sebastian Moran,” John breathed.

Moran smirked. “We'll see how long it takes the great Sherlock Holmes to find you. I'm sure you know the routine: you'll be used for bait, Holmes will show up, and there will be a fight to the death.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock's dead. You can't use me to kill someone that's already dead.”

The punch to his right side took John by surprise and made him gasp for air. Moran grabbed his hair and jerked his head down. 

“Don't. We all know Sherlock's still alive,” he shoved John's head away. Moran pulled a large hunting knife from a sheath at his back. “So.” He ran the tip lightly down John's chest, from throat to navel, causing blood to bead slowly in the wound. “You will cooperate with me and maybe, maybe I'll kill you quickly. Otherwise...” He struck John in the jaw with the grip of the knife. “Next time I'll use the other end.” 

John spat blood and a molar. He glared hatefully at Moran, and kicked out with his left leg. Moran saw it coming, however, and caught it, grabbing his foot and twisting viciously until the ankle snapped. John bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming and spat more blood, this time at Moran. Moran retaliated by slamming his fist in to John's stomach, driving the air from his lungs.

Blood dripped down John's chin, his head hanging limply. His chest heaved as he regained his breath.

“Don't do this to yourself, Captain Watson.” Moran was silent for a few moments, and John almost thought he'd left, but when he looked up Moran was aiming a phone at him. His phone.

“What--?”

“A message for Holmes.” Moran looked at him thoughtfully. “I don't think it's enough though,” he said, brandishing the knife again. John kicked out with his right leg, and this time he was fast enough, catching Moran hard in the left side. John felt his naked foot break at the impact, but he was sure he also broke Moran's seventh and eighth ribs. Moran recoiled a bit and slashed blindly with the knife, scoring a deep slash across John's lower abdomen. John panted in pain but refused to give Moran the satisfaction of crying out.

Moran backed away from John, pointed the phone at him, and took a picture. “I hope all the pain is worth this futile attempt to protect him,” he growled, cradling his injured side and leaving John alone in the room.

John took a long time to get his breath back. By then, his mouth had stopped bleeding. He hesitantly looked down at his stomach and was relieved to see that while the knife wound was long and deep, it had only cut into the external obliques and no organs were in danger. It was still bleeding, but not something he could worry about now. 

In fact, he was more worried about breathing. Since he was hanging in this position, his diaphragm and lungs were working against his body weight to keep functioning. He didn't know how long he'd been hanging before he regained consciousness; postural asphyxia was a real possibility. 

John tried to rest and not focus on the pain. He shifted most of his weight to his right arm, hoping to minimize the damage to his ruined left shoulder. The next person he saw would either be Moran to finish him off or Sherlock.

//*/*/*/

The four of them were settled at Baker Street, Mycroft texting madly and Sherlock typing madly on Mycroft's laptop. Lestrade had already notified NSY to be on the lookout for John or Moran on their way over and had officers sweeping the area. Lio sat on the couch, her right leg bouncing nervously.

Lestrade sat next to her and watched the brothers work. “So, how long have you known Sherlock?”

“We don't have time for small talk Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted. “Go look for—Oh!”

“What, 'oh?'” Lestrade asked.

“A message. From John's phone.” 

Lio couldn't be sure since he was across the room, but she swore she heard Sherlock's teeth grinding.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade prompted, and Sherlock threw the phone at him. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed. 

“He's in bad shape?” Lio asked Lestrade quietly, to which he replied, “Yeah, yeah, it's bad.”

Mycroft looked over his shoulder. “'Come and get him. You're not allowed to bring big brother or the copper. This is between me and you.' Well.”

Sherlock snatched the phone back from Lestrade and plugged it into the laptop, bringing the picture up on a larger screen.

“Is that necessary Sherlock? I don't really want to see a torture victim in HD,” Lestrade said, looking away.

“I need to find out where he is. The background. Where is that?”

“I've sent it to my people. They'll find it,” Mycroft said.

“It's a warehouse, maybe a packaging plant. Abandoned, obviously. Not too far from here if Moran's had enough time to do...that.”

Lestrade suddenly shoved Sherlock out of the way. “Wait, I know this place! Yeah, we had reports of lights and suspicious activity a few weeks ago. One of the callers said there was a dead body in there. Becher Processing. I remember it because it was so damn creepy. Anderson thought it was haunted.”

Sherlock looked at Lestrade in disbelief. “Are you sure? Absolutely sure?”

“Oh yeah, I remember all the bloody hooks hanging from the ceiling. Creepy, I'm telling you.”

Sherlock bolted for the stairs to leave the flat, but was blocked by Lio. “Forgetting something?” 

Sherlock paused. “I am actually. Lestrade, John's gun. Where did you hide it?”

Lestrade frowned. He went to the freezer and retrieved the handgun, ignoring Sherlock's “really?” Then he went into Sherlock's old bedroom and pulled the magazine from the top shelf in his closet. “I'm not stupid Sherlock. I know enough to separate them and I knew he wouldn't go in here.” He handed both to Sherlock, who loaded the weapon with a click.

“Thank you.” Lestrade knew it was for more than giving him the gun. “I'll take a cab. Less conspicuous than pulling up in a government vehicle, and he might get twitchy if he thinks you two are with me.” Sherlock made to leave again, but Lio was still standing at the top of the stairs. “Absolutely not,” Sherlock snapped.

“Do I have to punch you again, _ty chertovski idiot_? He said they can't come; no mention about me.”

“Lio,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Sherlock,” she said, and glared _hard_ , actually meeting his eyes.

“Fine.”

They both left, ignoring Lestrade's and Mycroft's protests. “What do we do, just sit here and wait?” Lestrade asked.

“Of course not. We give them a reasonable head start and then follow them.”

/*/*/*/*/*/*

The cab dropped them off outside the abandoned plant. Sherlock took a quick look around and determined that Moran was working alone and he'd be waiting inside. “He's a sniper; he works solo. He's not one to have henchmen. John will be held in the center of the facility. Moran will be waiting there for me.” He turned to look at Lio appraisingly. “I'll deal with Moran. I'll need you to get John out. I have no doubt that Mycroft will show up at some point, so once you're out, he'll get medical attention.”

“You sure you want to do that? Leave John to me?”

Sherlock snorted. “He wants me dead. He won't leave John for you, but I can draw him away so you can free John. That needs to be your focus: getting John to safety. You insisted on tagging along; you follow my rules.”

“Fair enough. Lead on then, _tovarishch_.”

Dim yellow-orange lights provided enough illumination for Sherlock to see where he was going. Lio followed closely behind, swinging and tapping her cane every so often. Now wasn't the time, but he wondered if she practiced a form of echolocation. 

She grabbed his arm to stop him and cocked her head. “Shh. Footsteps. A ways off, maybe...five, six hundred yards? He's not trying to hide himself,” she whispered.

“This is where we part. Find John. I'm going after Moran,” Sherlock whispered back and took off, only allowing himself a slight limp from his leg injury.

“Sherlock!” she hissed. “ _Neveroyatno sobirayus ubit sebya_.” Ignoring the shouts and sounds of a scuffle, she focused instead on the wall to her right, tracing it with her right hand and using the cane in her left to feel for additional obstacles. She wandered for ten or fifteen minutes, trying to open a few locked doors and coming to a few dead ends while also trying to keep the map in her head straight and hoping Sherlock's deduction that Moran worked alone was correct. She came to a crossroads that she was sure she'd been to before and had taken a left. She chose straight this time and found a door on her left that opened. Listening carefully, Lio could hear heavy labored breathing and slowly creaking chains. 

“John?” she called softly.

There was a long pause, then an incredulous “Lio?” 

Lio smiled in relief, and quickly made her way to him. “I smell a lot of blood. How bad is it?”

“Doesn't matter. Get me down. There's a hook above me. It has to be attached to something but I can't see it from here.”

Lio frowned as he spoke, hearing the wheeze in his chest. She took her cane and ran it up to John's bound hands, causing him to choke in pain, then start coughing. She frowned harder and concentrated on finding what the hook was attached to. Discovering a chain that wasn't as loose as the others, she followed it about 25 feet to a seeming dead end. Tucking the cane under her arm, she ran her hands along the wall in front of her and found a control panel full of buttons and switches. She made her way back to John, who had stopped coughing but was still wheezing.

“Good news, I found the control panel that should lower this chain. Bad news, it probably does a lot of other stuff. If I start hitting things, what other equipment is in here that could start up?”

John took a moment to collect himself. “More hooks and chains, belts. I don't know if there's anything else. Sorry, I can't...” he trailed off, panting.

“I'm gonna start throwing switches. Let's hope for the best,” she said, and went back to the panel. She felt around, hoping the correct switch or button would be warmer with the electricity running to it, but no such luck. She flipped a switch at random and nothing happened. Another switch and a terrible grinding sounded from the far left of the room. She quickly shut it off. She went down the line, most switches did nothing. Lio could hear John's breathing worsening, so she went through the row of buttons with greater urgency. On the fourth button, John's chain jerked and he moaned as his shoulders were jarred. Lio held the button down, dropping John fully to the floor. She rushed back to his side.

He was breathing easier, thankfully, but there was still a lot of blood and he wasn't trying to move. “Lio,” he said after a moment, “Where's Sherlock?”

“Dealing with Moran. I'm to get you out of here.”

John snorted, then groaned in pain. “I can't...both my legs...I can't walk.”

“ _Ublyudok_.”

They both jumped as several gunshots echoed through the facility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty chertovski idiot-you fucking idiot  
> tovarishch-comrade, friend  
> Neveroyatno sobirayus ubit sebya-he's going to get himself killed  
> Ublyudok-motherfucker


	9. Trophies and Burdens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i was going to wait to post this, but why do that to people. mycroft's a big teddy bear

Leaving Lio, Sherlock ran down the corridor and met Moran as he was coming out of an office. He barreled into the other man at full speed, propelling them both back inside. Moran grunted as Sherlock hit him in the chest with his shoulder. Sherlock felt something give in Moran's lower chest, probably ribs, but Sherlock hadn't hit him hard enough to break ribs so that meant they had already been broken. Good for you, John, Sherlock thought. Moran went down on his back with Sherlock on top of him, but before Sherlock could take advantage, Moran rolled and leaped to his feet.

As he was going for the knife, Sherlock launched himself from a crouch at Moran's knees, knocking him against the wall and driving the breath from his lungs. Moran recovered quickly and hit Sherlock in the jaw with a right hook, sending him sprawling on his back. Sherlock scrambled backwards and shoved himself to his feet, feeling the stitches in his leg tear. He threw himself at Moran again, but the man was prepared and danced out of Sherlock's range. 

Sherlock was determined not to let Moran draw that knife, so he charged again and Moran easily dodged him again. The wound in his leg was slowing him down too much. Time for a different approach. He backed away, huffing with exertion.

“You've had two years to kill me, why the sudden interest in doing it now?” he asked.

Moran, also breathing heavily, replied, “It's not just about you.”

“John.”

“You took Jim. While I watched! I'm going to kill Captain Watson while you watch, and then I'm going to kill you. And when I'm done with that, I'll mail your body parts to your brother, I'll burn down your home with the old lady still in it, and I'll make sure that Detective Inspector goes to prison for letting you work his cases. I will ruin everything you care about, and you won't be around to stop it!”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don't care.”

Moran threw his head back and laughed maniacally. “Oh Holmes, you don't think anyone actually believes that do you? If you didn't care, why are you here?”

“You're the last piece of Moriarty's web. You're a loose end, nothing more.”

“You can hide behind that mask all you want, Holmes, but Jim saw through it. He knew what Watson meant to you. I'm going to finish the job and burn the heart out of you. Just like you did to me. We were 'Jim and Seb' until you killed him.”

“I didn't kill Moriarty, he killed himself. Put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”

“He wouldn't have if it hadn't been for you!” Moran roared. “He was like a brother to me! You murdered him on that roof and got away with it!”

This man was truly unhinged. No amount of talking would stop his madness, but Sherlock had to keep stalling to make sure Lio had enough time to get John out.

“You hurt John. Where is he? He probably needs medical attention.”

“Like I'm going to tell you.” Moran looked at him, face breaking into a terrible grimace. “You didn't go to him right away. You came to me first.”

“I have a trump card.” 

“What have you done?” Moran screamed, launching himself at Sherlock.

Sherlock was ready for him and spun away, grabbing Moran's arm and twisting it up behind his back. He drove Moran into a wall, breaking his nose. Pinned, Moran mule-kicked Sherlock in his injured leg, causing it to buckle and Sherlock to release him. Moran was on him like a tiger, straddling him and throwing several punches that connected with Sherlock's head before he was able to bring his arms up to block. Sherlock bucked and threw Moran off balance enough for him to land a punch of his own, striking Moran in his already broken nose. Blood sprayed everywhere as Moran howled like a beast, but it wasn't enough to dislodge him completely. Moran grabbed Sherlock's hair and slammed his head twice against the floor before tipping sideways off of Sherlock.

Both men lay panting, bleeding and exhausted, for several moments. Moran recovered first, and loomed menacingly over Sherlock. He drew the knife.

Sherlock pulled the gun from underneath himself, having landed on it awkwardly. Vision swimming from multiple blows to the head, he squeezed off four shots before passing out.

/*/*/*/*/*/

“Moran had a giant knife not a gun...” John said.

“Sherlock has yours. I don't know why he waited so long to use it,” Lio said with a frown. She was still, crouched next to John, her head cocked and listening intently. Turning back to John, she asked “Are you able to move at all?”

“My hands are bound, but I might be able to get out of the middle of the room. Why?”

“Someone's coming. Slowly,” she said, still frowning.

“Sherlock?” John said hopefully. He was concerned about the gunshots.

“I don't think so. The steps are too heavy.”

“Lio, you cannot take Moran!” John looked on in disbelief as Lio stood, drawing her own weapon and facing the door.

“Move,” she said, and her tone brooked no argument. John pushed himself using the heel of his right foot and pulling with his right arm so he was along a wall. He watched in terror as the door was knocked open, revealing a bloodied Moran and his knife. He stalked into the room, stopping when he set eyes on Lio.

“You're his 'trump card?' He must have been desperate,” Moran sneered.

She gave Moran a half shrug. “He fucked you up pretty good, _glavnyy_ ,” she sneered, baring her teeth. “Broken ribs? Broken nose?” Without giving him time to reply, and aiming at the heavy breathing, she fired eleven rounds in quick succession, following the sounds of Moran scrambling out of the way. She hit him three times that she could tell, but wasn't sure where. Lio tossed the gun towards John. “It's useless to me now; I'll just waste ammo. There's seven left. Armor piercing, so shoot at anything.” Ignoring John's shout of her name, Lio ran toward Moran's puffing breaths and the smell of fresh blood.

As she came up on him, she dropped to a crouch, narrowly avoiding his swinging knife. Lio kicked up, aiming for his crotch, but hitting his thigh. She rose with a right hook to his jaw, feeling it and her hand break. Moran fell backwards, and as Lio was lining up for a kick to his head, Moran rolled, taking her to the ground. He sat on her chest and wrapped his hands around her neck. 

John raised the unfamiliar gun with shaking hands and fired twice, hitting Moran in the shoulder and knocking him off.

Lio spent a moment gulping for air, before John's shout of her name warned her that Moran was coming again. She quickly brought her knees up and shoved, pushing him off. She rolled to her feet and faced him, both of them struggling to breathe, Lio through a bruised throat and Moran through his broken ribs.

Moran flipped the knife to a stabbing hold rather than a slashing hold. John fired the remaining five rounds as Moran leaped at Lio, who sidestepped but not enough, the knife burying itself in her left shoulder. She screamed and they both crumpled to the floor.

“Lio!” John shouted, and tried to drag himself to her.

Moran lifted himself up, putting his entire weight on the knife, “I'll kill you,” he rasped, blood spilling from his mouth.

Lio scrabbled madly with her broken right hand towards Moran's face, shoving her fingers past his blood-coated teeth, trying to claw out his tongue. “ _Yesli ya umru, ty tozhe pridesh_.”

There were three more gunshots and Moran fell forward, dead.

Sherlock leaned heavily on the door jamb, blood crusted in his hair and dripping from a gash at his temple.

“Sherlock!” John cried. “Heroic entrance as usual.”

Sherlock smiled, but his head drooped in exhaustion.

“ _Ubiraysya ot menya_.” Lio growled weakly.

Sherlock hobbled over and kicked Moran's body off of her. 

“ _Yebena mat_.”

“Indeed.” He walked a few feet to check on John, kneeling at his side. “I should have made him suffer more,” Sherlock said angrily, taking in John's injuries. He pulled a pocket knife from his coat and cut the zip ties. 

John sighed thankfully and wiggled his fingers. “I'm all right, or I will be. This is all superficial. There's nothing you can do for my shoulder and feet.” He shuddered, and Sherlock draped his coat gently around him. John smiled at him. “Is someone coming? I don't think any of us are in any shape to walk out of here.”

“ _Dayte mne neskolko_...” Lio grimaced slightly, realizing she was speaking in Russian. “Give me a few minutes; I think I'll be able to get up.”

“No, don't move. You have a six inch blade in your shoulder. Moving could damage arteries. I don't know how close it is to your heart. Sherlock, you definitely have a concussion. I can see it in your eyes.” He nodded toward Lio. “Help me get to her. We need to make sure she's not bleeding out.” Sherlock helped John slowly shuffle on his knees to Lio. He looked closely at the injury, taking care not to touch the knife. “I think it went through your deltoid and missed the cephalic vein. It's bad, but could be worse. We'll let the surgeons remove the knife.”

“He really drove it in. I think it's buried in the floor. I feel like a fuckin' _babochka_ pinned to a mounting board.”

John looked down at her, a pained look on his face, “You risked your life for me, someone you barely know, three days after having seizures. You didn't have to do this, Lio.”

“I wasn't going to fail again,” she said quietly. “Besides, you were there for me after those seizures, so let's call it even, _da_?”

John gently took her left hand. “ _Da_.”

/*/*/*/*/*/

Sherlock sat next to John's hospital bed, texting rapidly.

“I don't get why you won't tell me what it's about. I'm assuming it's to Mycroft,” John prodded.

“Tying up loose ends,” Sherlock mumbled distractedly. He hit send on the last text and turned his full attention to John, who was finally in recovery after multiple surgeries to repair his torn left shoulder and broken left ankle. He'd be stuck in a boot for at least four months and would have to wear a brace on his right foot for six weeks. His shoulder would be immobilized for four weeks before reassessment. He'd need a lot of help, which brought Sherlock to a conversation he'd been dreading.

“John, how do you feel about me moving back to Baker Street? It would be a good idea, given that you're not very mobile now and will need help with basic things like cooking and cleaning. I know I didn't do those things in the past, but if it's to help you, I can do it. I can take small cases, little things that won't take me from the flat for long or at all, and of course Mrs Hudson would be there in an emergency. We could hire a nurse too, if that would be better, for things like bathing. Or I could find a place nearby and you can stay at Baker Street and I won't bother you until you want me to. If you want me to. It's really up to you.” Sherlock stopped, out of breath, and looked at John.

John was staring at him, mouth open in surprise and brows furrowed in confusion before he began to laugh.

Sherlock frowned, slightly hurt but trying to show it.

“Sherlock,” John said between chuckles, “Sherlock, _of course_ I want you to come home! Yes, we have some things to work out, but I'd rather have you _home_.” John reached out with his right arm and pulled him into a hug. Sherlock sighed in relief and hugged back tentatively.

They broke apart as there was a knock on the door frame. Lio stood slightly awkwardly, as if she was aware she was interrupting something important. “Sorry,” she said, “They discharged me earlier this morning and kicked me out. They needed the bed. I, uh, don't have a phone on me, so if you could call a cab...”

“Nonsense. Sherlock, take Lio home. They'll discharge me tomorrow, and we can talk more then. Right now, I'm still pretty knackered, so I won't be much company. I'll probably sleep the rest of the day. It's fine, Sherlock, go,” John said with a shooing motion.

“All right, if you're sure. Come on then, let's go.” They walked down the hall, Lio lightly resting her left hand on Sherlock's elbow. She was without her cane, and relying on him to lead made navigation much easier. Sherlock turned to her as they walked. “How did you find the right room?”

“One of the nurses told me the number. I can read Braille, Sherlock.”

“You've never done it before.”

She shrugged her right shoulder. “Eh, I don't do it often. I'm not real good at it, so books take forever to get through. Audio is much easier anyway.”

They caught a cab and went back to Lio's in comfortable silence. Upon arrival, Lio threw herself on the couch, wincing as she jarred her shoulder, and Sherlock sat in what had become “his” chair.

“It'll be quiet without you, you know.”

“How much did you hear?”

“Pretty much all of it, I think. It's fine though, I knew this was temporary until Moran was dealt with. I guess I didn't think it would come so fast. It's the right thing, to go back to Baker Street and I'm glad you can. You and John belong together.”

“I'm sure we'll keep in touch. I may not be good at this type of thing, but John will certainly want to include you in birthdays and Christmases and whatever other meaningless holidays normal people celebrate.”

Lio laughed. “That sounds about right.”

Sherlock hesitated a moment before saying, “Mycroft's...sending some people over tomorrow to gather my things. There's not much, so they'll only need one trip. Then I'll be back to Baker Street.”

“Tomorrow already? It's times like these where I wish I could get trakhat'sya but liquor and all my medications...well. Best I can offer is a shot,” she said, and got up. She pulled the Ukrainian vodka down from the shelf along with two glasses. She poured a small amount in one and a much larger amount in the other. She handed Sherlock the fuller glass. “You can't drink this stuff slow. Slam it. _Ura_!”

Sherlock followed her advice and swallowed the drink in one gulp. His eyes watered and he nearly choked but kept it together. “That's...strong.”

Lio laughed again.

*/*/*/*/*/

Mycroft's moving company arrived at 8am the next morning, waking Lio who typically slept in to about 9:30 or 10. She walked out of her room yawning, barefoot and still in pajamas. She rubbed her head roughly with both hands, leaving her shaggy hair even more wild.

“Did they have to be here so damn early?” she asked Sherlock, joining him at the kitchen table as he monitored the movers' progress. He passed her a mug of coffee.

“They're on Mycroft's payroll, so if it had been left to him, he would've had them here at five. Count yourself lucky. Here,” he said, set her phone down in front of her with a clack. She frowned at him. “I programmed us into it. Just after Doctor Patel. Me, John, Lestrade, and Mycroft.”

Lio's face lit up into a grin. “ _Spasibo_.”

They drank their coffee in silence, waiting for the movers to finish. Sherlock was right; there wasn't much so it didn't take them long. He was ready to go by ten.

“Well,” he said, standing in the doorway. “We'll keep in touch. Thank you, Lio.”

“ _Pozhaluysta_. You're welcome.”

He was out the door in a swirl of his coat and Lio was left alone in the silence once more.

Though it wasn't her intent, she must have dozed off on the couch, because the next thing she knew she was startled awake by a sharp knock on the door and fell off it. Cursing colorfully in Russian, Lio got to her feet and shook her head at herself. She opened the door, surprised to find Mycroft there. 

“Miss Verednikov. Do you have a few moments?” he asked formally.

“Ah, sure, _da_ , I'll put the kettle on? Um, please, have a seat. Wherever.”

“Thank you.

Confused and a little concerned, Lio made tea. Once it was ready, she brought it to him. “What's wrong? Has something happened? Already?”

Mycroft took a sip of tea before answering, which was infuriating. “No, nothing's wrong. Believe it or not, Miss Verednikov, I am capable of social calls.”

“ _Yerunda_. Not like this, not now.”

Mycroft sighed. “Very well. I confess to ulterior motives, though I'm here at Sherlock's urging.”

Lio moved her hand in a circular motion, prompting him to continue.

“You were instrumental in bringing down Sebastian Moran, accomplice to noted psychopath James Moriarty. With his death, the last of Moriarty's connections have been broken and the world as whole can breathe easier, even if they weren't aware of the danger.”

“This all sounds very rehearsed, Mycroft. You're welcome, but I'm not sure what the point...”

“The _point_ , Miss Verednikov, if you'd let me finish, is that the British government is prepared to thank you for your contribution to world peace.”

Lio side-eyed him skeptically. “I've already got a box of medals for my contributions. You've seen the file; you know what they are.”

“Indeed I do. I'm talking about something more tangible. Do you like living here?”

“It's fine,” she said quickly.

“That's not what I asked. Would you move out of this flat?”

“Not an option. My payments from the Russian government are barely enough to keep afloat as is. I check every once in a while; this is all I can afford.”

“Again, I—the British government is prepared to thank you.”

Lio's hands clenched. “Mycroft. Are you, sorry, is _the British government_ offering to buy me a house?”

“Don't be ridiculous. We're offering to upgrade your living situation. It's slightly smaller since it only has one bedroom, but more in line with your needs, I should think. The flat is in a much nicer part of town. You'll be closer to Doctor Patel's office as well as within walking distance to several tube stations and bus routes. I've been told the landlady is 'delightful' and she lives on-site. There are other tenants in an upstairs flat, but they shouldn't be too much bother. I've worked it out with your government, and as long we're willing to cover the difference, you can move in immediately.” 

“Where?” Lio asked, still skeptical.

“Perhaps it would be best if I showed you. If you would come with me?”

Against her better judgment, Lio did join him after finally changing out of her pajamas. They rode to the mystery flat in tense silence, Lio still not quite believing what he was offering. The car came to a halt and Mycroft announced their arrival, unnecessarily in Lio's opinion.

“There are three steps. This way please.” Keys jingled in a lock as Mycroft opened the flat. It was completely empty so it echoed slightly, but Lio wandered through it with Mycroft trailing behind her, pointing out where closets were and where the bathroom and bedroom were. 

“Well, I think all my furniture will fit, but I can downsize if I need to.” She turned to Mycroft, frowning. “You're serious. I could live here. You'd pay for it.”

“Yes.”

“For as long as I'm here.”

“Yes.”

Her cheeks puffed as Lio blew out a full breath. “ _Chto ya dolzhen poteryat. Da_ , okay, let's do it.”

“Very good,” he said, and sent a text, which was immediately followed by hammering footsteps on the stairs.

“I thought you said the neighbors wouldn't be bothersome.”

“These two won't be,” Mycroft said and stepped back just as Sherlock barreled into the room. John was much more subdued as he came in though no less quiet. His injuries and the boot and brace had him using the cane again.

Lio froze for a few seconds. “Sherlock? John?”

“Yep!” John said happily.

Lio chuckled in disbelief. “Well, I guess I'm your new neighbor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glavnyy-chief  
> Yesli ya umru, ty tozhe pridesh-if I go down, you're coming with me  
> Ubiraysya ot menya-get this asshole off me  
> Yebena mat-holy shit  
> Dayte mne neskolko-give me a few  
> babochka-butterfly  
> Spasibo-thanks  
> Yerunda-bullshit  
> Chto ya dolzhen poteryat-what do I have to lose

**Author's Note:**

> pravilno-right  
> o bozhe-oh god  
> da-yes  
> net-no
> 
> i listened to a lot of weird shit while writing this: puscifer, tesseract, tool, rishloo, leprous, karnivool, butterfly effect, dead letter circus, celldweller, blue stahli, skyharbor


End file.
